


Rise and Fall

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Fallen Angels, Hellhounds, M/M, Rating subject to change, goes completely AU after Reichenbach, mentions of drug use, season 1 and 2 retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 201,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a Fallen looking for a distraction. John Watson is an invalided soldier looking for a flatshare. When they meet, both get more than they bargained for. But while Sherlock keeps John in the dark, someone else is patiently making sinister plans for the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am very happy to finally present my first multi-chapter Sherlock fanfiction to the fandom. This story is just shy of 200K and has been in the works for approximately two years. It took me one year to write and another to edit. Eternal thanks (and all the blame) go to Ella (thescreechowl on tumblr) who, when I said I had an idea for a SHORT alternative Reichenbach Fall scene, said "Write it!". All of this is basically her fault.
> 
> Further thanks to my dear friend Sabi, who listened to me rant and whine about this for a year and test-read the entire monster.
> 
> Without further ado...

_"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."_  
_\- Confucius_

 

_Prologue_

The pain was like nothing he could have ever imagined. It tore at him, dragged him down, made him scream until his throat felt raw - and yet the torment continued. They might as well be tearing out his arms, flaying open his back and removing his shoulder blades, long claws digging into his back and _ripping._

  
There were words, too, but he was in too much pain to pay attention, screaming too loudly to hear them, too weak to listen. All that penetrated the haze of agony was an acute sense of disappointment. Not his own, but theirs. He was merely the cause. Nothing new about that, he had always given them plenty of reasons to frown upon him. This time, they did more than frown and shake their heads. This time, he had gone too far.

  
It might have lasted hours or days, eons or seconds. He couldn't have said. There was no movement of the sun, no changing of light and shadow, no ticking of a clock by which to tell the passing of time.

  
When it was over, they left him unconscious on the ground. He woke with rough asphalt pressed against his cheek and drizzling rain soaking his body. Every inch of him ached and his back felt as if it was on fire. He didn't bother reaching for it. There was nothing he could do to soothe the pain.

  
Clumsily, he got to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself as he peered into the darkness. Even his eyes hurt. He felt dizzy and disoriented and the only reason he wasn't screaming in pain was because he had already screamed himself hoarse.

  
He caught sight of a street sign, causing his mental map to unfurl and pinpoint his location. At least that much he still had left. A quick walk through the main corridors of his mind palace reassured him that his shields had held. His memories, at least, were still where they belonged. His mind was his.

  
Taking one last look around, trying to find a sign of at least one of his tormentors, his gaze caught on a flash of copper. He bent, fingers scraping over the ground as he picked it up and held it up against the light of a street lamp for closer inspection.

  
His lips turned into a grim, twisted smile.

  
A moment later, he turned and walked down the street, his mind already having calculated the shortest way to his dingy flat. Every now and then, he reached into the pocket of his coat, fingers stroking the single feather he had found.


	2. Part 1 - Chapter 1

**PART I**

  
_"If even angels fall, what hope is there for the rest of us?"_   
_― Richelle Mead_

**Chapter 1**

 

_Several months later_

  
The rain was beating down heavily on the tattered umbrella Sergeant Greg Lestrade held over his and his boss's heads. Cold water dripped down and into his collar, running down the back of his neck. His shirt was already soaked there. Lestrade yearned for a cup of coffee.

  
They had been out here for hours, waiting for the medical examiner and crime scene investigators to finish their preliminaries. Greg had spent most of that time holding the bloody umbrella and wishing he could join his colleagues who were going from door to door, asking the neighbours if they had seen anything suspicious or simply using that as an excuse to get out of the rain.

  
His arm was stiff and his shoulder was beginning to hurt, so he switched the umbrella to his other hand and looked up and down the dark street, searching for a reason - any reason - to get away.

  
It appeared some higher power was smiling upon him. He spotted movement between a couple of skips at the end of the cul-de-sac and focused on the shadows there. A figure sat huddled between the skips, wrapped in an old blanket, face cast in shadow. And yet Lestrade was sure the person there was staring right at him.

  
"Uh, sir, there's a homeless guy over there," he said, tapping his superior's arm. "Might be he saw something."

  
Detective Inspector Winters snorted. "Don't think so. Send one of the officers if you want him checked out. This is a high-security building, a homeless man wouldn't have gotten in."

  
_'No, but he might have seen someone else get in'_ , Greg thought bitterly. He didn't say so, though. Instead, he looked around for one of the officers. "They're all busy, sir. I'd really like to check this out."

  
"Fine, give me that umbrella. You're dripping water all over me anyway," Winters grunted. "But if he stabs you, don't say I didn't warn you."

  
Greg waved him off and walked away, shoulders drawn up to fend off at least some of the rain. It was all for naught, of course. He was already soaking wet.

  
Once he had gotten enough distance between him and the others, he stopped and dug around in his pocket for his cigarettes. First thing you learned when dealing with homeless folks: Show them you've got something to offer and they might be willing to trade information for goods or money.

  
The small flame of his lighter was the closest to warmth he had gotten in hours and he shivered as the warmth hit his face. The end of the fag lit up and he took his first drag, sighing in relief. Turning his back on his boss, he ambled towards the end of the street, keeping close to the houses so the overhanging roofs might offer a bit of shelter against the rain.

  
Finally, he got within speaking distance.

  
"Bit of a wet night out for skip-diving, innit?"

  
A moment of silence. Then, a haughty voice replied. "Bit of a wet night out to stand in the rain for hours, holding an umbrella for a moron."

  
"That, too," Lestrade agreed, exhaling a cloud of smoke and watching as it disintegrated in the rain.

  
"Bit of a wet night for carrying around a pack of cigarettes in your coat pocket, too, it would seem," the speaker continued, his tone suggestive.

  
Lestrade tried to hide his grin. "Aye. I might be inclined to share. For something in return, of course."

  
"Of course," the man said. It was definitely a man, no woman could have a voice like that, a deep baritone that made its speaker sound ageless. "And I suppose the information you want is directly connected to that murder you are investigating."

  
"That's the idea, yes," Lestrade agreed.

  
"I see."

  
A minute passed without either of them saying anything.

  
Finally, Greg got impatient. "So? Got anything you want to share?"

  
"That depends on how much you are willing to trade," the man said. Cloth rustled and he moved closer, most of his frame still sheltered between the skips. At least now he was able to peer out at the Sergeant. Dark, wet hair was plastered to his forehead and iridescent eyes focused on him with such an intense look in them Lestrade could almost feel their gaze. The man was younger than he had expected him to be, barely in his early twenties.

  
He shrugged but chose his words carefully. "What I'm willing to trade depends on how much information you can give me about the murderer."

  
The man nodded. "Well phrased. Wouldn't want to trade for information without specifying what kind of information you are looking for. You'll make it far, once you get away from that other guy."

  
"What other guy?," Greg asked warily. He wasn't quite sure if praise from a homeless man was something he wanted to receive.

  
"Don't play stupid with me. People always are, there's no point in drawing further attention to it," the young man - boy, really - snarled. "The fat one who looks like thinking gives him a headache."

  
_'Funny'_ , Lestrade thought. _'He really does look like that.'_

  
"But that's beside the point," the boy continued. "Give me a cigarette and I'll give you one piece of evidence your colleagues missed."

  
Greg shrugged. "That's not much of a-"

  
"Give me the entire pack," the young man continued, interrupting him, "and I will tell you who killed the rich woman and how it was done."

  
In his surprise, Lestrade almost swallowed his cigarette.

  
******

  
Ten minutes later, the young man stood at the edge of the crime scene tape, studiously ignoring the looks - ranging from curious to suspicious - the officers were throwing in his direction as he pointed this way and that, rattling off information at machine-gun speed. Lestrade and Winters stood to either side of him, looking where he pointed, nodding along.

  
Greg had never been more in awe of anyone than this young man, now clutching his pack of cigarettes and describing in vivid detail how he had come to his conclusion that the rich young widow had been murdered by her deceased husband's brother. His motive? Gambling debts. Simple.

  
Predictably, once he had ordered the crime scene techs to follow up on all the evidence the young man had listed, Winters gave him a curt nod and left to arrest the brother-in-law, who had been sulking about the scene and giving an oscar-worthy performance of a grieving family member.

  
"That was ... really impressive," Lestrade said, looking at the boy and taking a moment to really focus on his appearance. Besides the dark hair and silvery eyes, he was tall and far too thin, his features gaunt and marked by sharply protruding cheekbones. He wasn't dressed in rags, Greg noted, but old jeans and a dark hoodie. He had left the blanket between the skips and was quickly getting soaked by the rain.

  
"You lot see but you don't observe," he muttered, shrugging and scratching his left forearm.

  
The gesture made alarm bells ring in a faint corner of Lestrade's mind and he refocused his attention. Those silver-blue-green eyes had a slightly feverish sheen to them, restlessly flittering about, the boy seemed to be sweating despite the cold autumn rain and every so often an involuntary twitch would shake his arm or leg.

  
_Oh hell._

  
"With me," he snapped. "Now."

  
He turned on his heel and marched back down the alley, closer to the skip. A faint scruff of shoes on pavement told him the young man was following. Once they were out of earshot, he rounded on him.

  
"What the hell were you thinking, coming to a crime-scene high as a kite?!"

  
He had the grace to flinch, but didn't look very intimidated. "Are you going to arrest me for being a junkie?"

  
Greg almost flinched at the word but kept himself in check. "Being high isn't a crime, sadly enough. But if you have been feeding us false information-"

  
"I haven't!" The protest was immediate and ferocious. "Being high doesn't stop me from thinking clearly. Quite the opposite, in fact. All the evidence is there for you to see, if you had taken the time to do so, you could have solved this entire case without me."

  
Lestrade sighed. "Fine. But listen, you can't keep doing that. I can see you have a lot of potential for this kinda thing, but the drugs have to stop. Now, how about you give me your address and I'll take you home."

  
The young man looked surprised. "You will?"

  
He shrugged. "Least I can do for you. I don't particularly like standing around in the rain for hours on end and you just solved us the case."

  
A moment of contemplation. Then: "I live in Montague Street."

  
Definitely not homeless, then. Well at least something. He indicated his car down the street and started walking, sure that the young man would follow.

  
"Okay, Montague Street it is, then. ... uh, what is your name, anyway?"

  
"Sherlock," he said sullenly as he followed Lestrade to his car. "Sherlock Holmes."

  
Greg blinked. "That's a bit of a weird name."

  
Sherlock snorted. "You should hear my brother's."

  
Greg didn't know what to say to that, so he just drove in silence, watching from the corner of his eye as Sherlock stared out of the passenger side window. His skin looked incredibly pale, almost translucent, in the dim light of the car's interior. His shaking was growing worse, too.

  
"Tell me something," Lestrade said as he pulled the car up in front of Sherlock's home in Montague Street.

  
The junkie eyed him warily. "What?"

  
"How come a genius like you is stuck in a hole like this-" he gestured at the building "- instead of working some high-end job?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "There is no job that could hold my interest for long."

  
Greg nodded. "You might consider crime-solving. Seems you have a knack for that."

  
Instead of responding, Sherlock reached for the door handle, opening the passenger door.

  
"One last question," Lestrade said and the young man hesitated. "What now?"

  
He drew a breath. "Why drugs?"

  
There was something incredibly sad in those strange, iridescent eyes. "Because they make me feel like I can fly."

  
******

  
Greg didn't know what exactly had happened, but from that moment on, things began to change.

  
The junkie, Sherlock, had a knack for appearing at crime scenes, somehow timing his arrival in such a way as to ensure that Lestrade was one of the officers in attendance. He read clues from a distance, most of the time enough to at least garner a strong lead if not the perp himself.

  
Once, a young officer who had only recently joined the force happened to walk by as Sherlock explained to Lestrade how the leaves clinging to the victim's body indicated he had been killed at Regent's Park instead of Hyde Park where they currently were.

  
"What kinda freak is that, then?," she had asked, shaking her head at his reasoning, dark curly hair bouncing around her face.

  
Sherlock had flinched ever so slightly but didn't otherwise show any sign of having heard her. But from that moment on, he timed his appearances to make sure Greg was the only one who spotted him, and he refused to show himself if anyone else was around.

  
He was still high more often than not, however, and Lestrade was finding it more and more difficult to overlook the clear signs of addiction etched into his body. He made up for it by treating Sherlock to a hot meal every time he saw him, keeping him company and allowing him to use him as a sounding board.

  
The boy was brilliant, that much had quickly become obvious. He had never seen anyone think that fast, make leaps like that. And yet, every leap, once properly explained, seemed so obvious he found himself wondering how he had missed the evidence right under his nose. Greg quickly gained the impression that the boy was desperately lonely but too proud to ask for company, so he made a point of providing it.

  
Things continued in that vein for about three months. Then, quite out of the blue, Greg found himself in the Chief's office where he was informed that he had been promoted to Detective Inspector. The Chief mumbled something about his showing a lot of promise and having a great career ahead of him, and dismissed him with a verbal pat on the head.

  
Still dazed by the sudden advancement of his career, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade only noticed the man sitting in his living room that evening when he had already taken off his coat.

  
"Ah, Sergeant Lestrade," the man said pleasantly, the posh accent and expensive suit completely at odds with Greg's small flat. "That is to say, Detective Inspector. A huge career advancement. Congratulations."

  
He didn't sound very congratulatory and once Lestrade had gotten over the shock of encountering a stranger in his flat, he found his own voice.

  
"And who the hell are you, then?," he asked. "Any particular reason why I shouldn't arrest you for breaking and entering?"

  
"Please," the man said, smiling as if Lestrade had just made a vaguely amusing jest. "It is hardly breaking and entering when one has a key."

  
Greg frowned. "You have a key to my flat? Where from?"

  
The man gave an elegant shrug. "I have a key to every flat in London, if I decide I need one."

  
Lestrade nodded. That was easier than trying to believe him. "Fine. And why did you ... decide ... that you needed a key for my flat?"

  
The man didn't reply, spinning his black umbrella beneath his hand, the silver tip resting on the floor. Keen eyes were fixed on Greg. There was something familiar about them but he didn't quite know what it was.

  
"You have taken an interest in Sherlock Holmes," he finally said. "Why?"

  
Greg folded his arms, drawing his shoulders back to look taller. "Why do you care?"

  
"Inquiring minds want to know," the man replied mildly.

  
"Yes. Well, it's none of their concern. _Or yours_ ," he said pointedly.

  
The man abruptly stopped his umbrella and folded his hands on the handle. "Everything about Sherlock Holmes is my concern."

  
"If it was, I'm sure he would have mentioned you by now," Lestrade told him. "If he truly is your concern, you really botched up the job. The cocaine is going to kill him sooner rather than later."

  
He didn't quite know why he was talking to a complete stranger about Sherlock's drug addiction, but at least he wasn't betraying the boy's confidence. He hardly made a secret of the fact that he was using, after all.

  
Something flashed across the man's features at his words, but it was gone before Lestrade could decipher it. He thought it might have been pain.

  
"And yet, despite his obvious addiction, you continue to associate with him."

  
The question behind the statement remained unspoken at top volume.

  
Lestrade shrugged, decided he was sick of standing around in his own sitting room like a guest, and sat down in his favourite armchair. "So? The lad could use some company and a good meal or five. Thin as a twig and it looks like he hasn't got a soul to care for him - or take care of him."

  
He raised his hands in a 'what can you do' gesture. "Besides, he's got a good eye, brilliant sense of reasoning. If only he'd get off the drugs, I might be able to do more, make him a consultant for the Yard or something."

  
The other man raised one eyebrow, apparently surprised at the very notion. Or maybe just surprised that Lestrade not only wanted to help Sherlock, but had actually put some thought into how it might be accomplished. He didn't know whether to feel insulted or gratified.

  
"And you would be willing to keep me abreast of any developments? For a generous compensation, of course," he added as if paying people to spy on other people was part of his everyday business. Maybe it was.

  
"You can shove your compensation where the sun don't shine," Greg told him, rather rudely. "If you want to know what he's up to, you can damn well go and ask him yourself. If, as you claim, he is your concern, surely that shouldn't be difficult for you."

  
"Very interesting," the posh man on his shabby sofa said, nodding to himself as if Greg had just confirmed some theory of his. Before he had a chance to ask what it was, the man got up. "Well, that will be all then. Have a good evening, Detective Inspector."

  
"Now wait a minute!," Lestrade snapped. "You can't just break in here, try to bribe me and march back out as if you're the bloody Queen of England herself. And with her at least I'd know who I'm dealing with, what with knowing her name and all."

  
The man looked torn between amusement and something else that looked like it might become dangerous at any moment. "The _bloody_ Queen of England? No, Inspector, I'm afraid I'm not. I do see her Majesty for tea on occasion, however."

  
Greg chose to ignore this information. "That doesn't tell me your name, though, does it?"

  
The man sighed, already standing at the door. "Very well, then. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Good evening, Inspector."

  
And with a tip of his non-existent hat, he left.

  
Lestrade sat and stared at the closed door for several minutes, trying to make sense of the entire conversation that had just transpired. Finally, his mind snatched onto the intruder's name, dragging up a snippet of something Sherlock had said on the night of their first meeting when Greg had commented on his odd name.

  
_"You should hear my brother's."_

  
Apparently, he just had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for checking out this story! The next chapter will be posted on Sunday.


	3. Part 1 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

The prick of the needle in the crook of his arm was one of the best sensations he had ever experienced. He pressed down, feeling the seven percent solution entering his blood stream and almost immediately unfolding its considerable effects.

  
His sigh of relief was dangerously close to a moan and he let his head sink back against the wall with a dull thud as the feeling of weightlessness flooded his body. It had been far too long since he had felt this way. The shaking of his hands stopped, as did the minor twitch in his muscles. The craving eased, making way for relief and ecstasy.

  
The cocaine was the only thing that offered respite from the constant phantom pain of wounds that didn't quite exist, the memory of his torn back and burning agony erased for precious hours.

  
At the same time, his mind soared, pushed into overdrive by chemical components and the relief of not having to keep the agony under control for a time because there was no agony to be felt.

  
Particles of dust that usually merited nothing but a quick glance now managed to hold his interest for minutes at a time, his mind catalogueing and calculating, sorting through memories and bundles of information, filing new data away in the vast expanse of his mind palace.

  
Sometimes, when the first rush of ecstasy receded and he felt able to move again, he conducted experiments at the kitchen table or in the sink. There was a huge burn mark on the kitchen ceiling where one of those experiments had produced a jet of flame that had taken one of his eyebrows and singed his fringe. The scent of burnt hair had almost made him retch, but the experiment had been successful and thus worth the cost.

  
Today, he felt no inclination to get up, staying slumped on the floor beside the sofa. He really should have sat down there, but it had seemed like too much effort at the time and he was of no mind to move now. The floor beneath him and the wall at his back would have to do.

  
Besides, the cocaine didn't seem to be as effective as it used to be. Already he could feel the drug's effect lessening, turning his thoughts sluggish (by his standards) and making him aware of an annoying itch in the proximity of his shoulder blades. The pain was only one small step away, he knew.

  
But he wasn't ready to return to the agony just yet.

  
On the kitchen table, his mobile phone buzzed, alerting him to a text. The fifth in the span of the evening. He ignored it, just as he had done the others before that, reaching for the second syringe he had already waiting. Tonight, he was going to indulge himself.

  
As the cool metal pierced his skin and the drug flooded his system with a new rush of ecstasy, he thought that maybe, if only he took enough, he could end it all, soar high into the air and fly away, the wind in his hair and tugging at his clothes, the world small and insignificant beneath him, and no pain to be felt.

  
He smiled as his eyelids fluttered closed.

  
*****

  
He woke to a persistent beeping noise and the smell of disinfectant stinging his nose. Hospital, then.

  
For an indeterminable time - minutes, maybe hours - he lay still and unmoving, applying his vast intellect to the difficult task of figuring out if he was relieved or disappointed to still be alive.

  
After a while, he found himself wondering if it was even possible for him to die. The thought of eternity in this state, haunted by the phantom pain of his loss, made his stomach churn and his head ache. He shuddered, his mind shying away from the very idea.

  
It was at that point that he noticed the glaring absence of something that had become a constant in his life: his craving for cocaine.

  
The need for the drug, the keening desire to get his hands on a syringe and shoot up, had left his body if not his mind. No shaking muscles, no cravings that made him feel like he was going mad. He knew what that meant but couldn't bring himself to care about the time he had lost while they kept him in a coma, forcing his body through withdrawl.  
Finally, he decided it was time to open his eyes and face the world. Maybe he would be lucky and manage to catch a nurse or doctor that could be cowed into releasing him early. As in immediately.

  
He found his plans thwarted the moment he opened his eyes to the sight of Mycroft in the visitor's chair, his hands resting on the handle of his pretentious and completely unnecessary umbrella. As if Mycroft would ever allow such a thing as rain to touch him.

  
Unfortunately, he also wouldn't allow Sherlock to leave here anytime soon. Well, in that case, there was no reason to behave civilly, was there?

  
"It seems I have continued my descent and finally arrived in hell," he said in lieu of a greeting. "There really is no other explanation for your presence."

  
"Don't be absurd, Sherlock," Mycroft replied. "Hell would hardly offer you such a comfortable bed, much less allow _me_ in."

  
"Now you're just trying to entice me into going there," Sherlock muttered.

  
His brother did what he always did when he thought he was being unreasonable and ignored him.

  
"You gave DI Lestrade quite a scare, brother. I understand he got worried when you did not respond to his text messages and went to check on you. A couple of minutes later and it might have been too late to save you."

  
"Shame," Sherlock said. "Provided I can die at all, of course. I certainly feel like it at the moment."

  
Mycroft gave him a hard stare, his face carefully blank. "From now on, I shall make certain we won't have to find out. No more drugs, Sherlock."

  
Anger burned in his stomach, a hot, writhing mess. "And what do you expect me to do all day? Sit around in my flat, bored to death and with nothing to occupy myself with?"

  
"Ah," his brother made, in a way that suggested he was glad Sherlock had brought it up because he had already thought of this problem and come up with a solution. Predictable.

  
"Luckily for you, Detective Inspector Lestrade is convinced you can be of help in his line of work. He claims you have a ... how did he phrase it? _'A knack for this sort of thing'_ ... and is willing to take you on as an independent consultant. You get a salary for your services and in return he will let you work on as many of his cases as you want."

  
Or maybe not quite that predictable. Sherlock pondered this suggestion for some time. "Where is the catch?" There obviously had to be one.

  
"The moment you return to the cocaine - or any other addictive substance - the deal is off the table and I will have you carted into a rehabilitation facility out in the country."

  
Sherlock winced. That did in fact sound like a version of what he imagined his personal hell to look like. He thought some more, considering his options.

  
"What about cigarettes?" There was no way he would get through this without at least nicotine to help him through the rough patches.

  
Mycroft sighed. "You may make use of nicotine patches if you must. I will not have you torture your lungs further with that stink." He scrunched up his nose and bristled in disgust.

  
"Fine," Sherlock growled, knowing when he had lost. There was no other option and at least solving puzzles disguised as crimes promised to be interesting enough to keep his mind from tearing itself to pieces. And, if it didn't work, he could always find another way.

  
"Very good. I shall inform the Inspector immediately. He will be pleased to hear of your decision."

  
That drew a snort from him. "Not much of a decision involved, was it?"

  
"You did choose to be difficult, brother."

  
"I chose none of this!," Sherlock snapped, his rage abruptly boiling over. "I didn't ask for any of the things they did, I didn't decide to throw away everything that made me who I am. I didn't ask for this torture! And I certainly didn't ask for them to-" He broke off with a choked sob, realising to his own shock and dismay that he was crying. That had to be the effect of the withdrawl.

  
A moment later, his shock deepened when Mycroft, the epitome of personal distance, sat on the edge of his bed and hugged him. It was clumsy and awkward, but it was definitely a hug and his grip was strong.

  
"I am sorry, little brother," his soft voice sounded close to Sherlock's ear, for the first time in ages devoid of the exasperation usually colouring his tones. "I am trying to find a way to reverse it but it takes time. You need to give me time and I promise, I will find a solution. But I need you to stay alive. You and I both know what your death might cause."

  
He let go and left the room before Sherlock had a chance to formulate an appropriate response. He could do nothing but stare at the door as it closed, alone in a too white room with the annoying beep of the heart rate monitor the only sound disturbing the silence.

  
He glared at the machine, irrationally angry with it for providing constant proof of his continued survival. The beeping and his anger, fuelled by pain and disappointment and shame - he had not meant to break down like this, not in front of Mycroft - distracted him so much it took him almost ten minutes to realise that his brother had kept his wings completely invisible for the entire duration of the visit.

  
That simple fact was enough to throw him into another confusing spiral of bitterness and pain - and yet he felt grateful. He did not quite know what to make of his own mental state at the moment, but he knew enough to be aware that the sight of his brother's wings would have torn him apart.

  
And then there was the unavoidable fact that Mycroft was right. Dying was not an option. They were not sure what would happen, but there was a risk involved neither of them wanted to chance.

  
Sighing, he settled back against his lumpy pillow and forced his mind to contemplate the possible benefits of working for Scotland Yard in an inofficial capacity.

  
Little did he know that, at the exact same time as he had agreed to Mycroft's proposal, a young man named John Watson had taken up a pen and signed up for the Army in hopes of financing his medical degree and of surviving the war long enough to actually put it to good use.

  
Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand, was absently aware of that fact, as he was of everything to do with any of the wars Great Britain was in some way or other involved in. However, that did not mean that he had any idea of how significant this new recruit would prove to the promise he had just made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely response so far. The next chapter will be up on Wednesday and we'll finally get to see what John is up to!


	4. Part 2 - Chapter 1

**PART II**

   
 _"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."_  
 _– Carl Jung_

  
**Chapter 1**

Afghanistan was blazing hot during the daytime and bloody unreasonably cold at night, which meant 'freezing'. To claim that John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had gotten used to the temperatures by now would be an outright lie. He strongly suspected there was no getting used to it. He had, however, learned to ignore them and concentrate on other things.

  
Such things mostly centered around not getting shot at and actually hitting people when he returned the courtesy - unless he was busy dragging the body of one of his injured comrades out of the line of fire, of course.

  
Bullets whizzed over his head as he crouched behind the meagre shelter offered by a row of sandsacks, working feverishly on trying to stem the bloodflow from Jimmy Kermel's leg. The bullet had grazed an artery and John wished he had an additional pair of hands to tackle the impossible task of applying pressure and securing the artery at the same time. And all the while he also had to focus on talking to Jimmy, keeping him alert and conscious, listening to his voice and allowing him to tell him whatever he wanted.

  
People made all kinds of requests when they thought they were dying and had something to say as well as someone to say it to. Some of these things were rather ridiculous but John would be damned if he missed a single word of it.

  
Jimmy - too young, damn it, too bloody young - had a lot to say but none of it was a message he wished to be relayed. Instead, he talked to John.

  
"Guess m-my guardian angel decided to take a nap," was what he said, laughing the harsh laugh of the hysteric. "And look w-what hap-happened."

  
"Nothing that can't be fixed," John lied, pressing down harder and fumbling for something to tie around Jimmy's leg to secure the artery. A belt, a piece of string - anything long enough would do.

  
"You believe in guardian angels, then?," he asked, less out of interest and more out of the wish that the boy - twenty, what age was that to die at? - would continue talking.  
"A-all kinds of 'em, Cap," Jimmy told him. "Almost died three times before I even got here, always made it out alive by sheer dumb luck. N-no one's that lucky, I reckon. Me mum says I've got me a-a guardian angel watchin' over me. Says I bloody need one, too."

  
John looked down at his hands, red with Jimmy's blood, and found he couldn't agree more. He couldn't help but think that if there was such a thing as a guardian angel for Jimmy, the sod had chosen a really bad time to take a break from his duties.

  
"D-do you believe in 'em? Angels, that is," Jimmy asked, his voice turning a bit sluggish as the blood loss caught up with him.

  
"No," John said, almost sobbing with relief as he found a strip of gauze that was long enough. "If there was such a thing, why's everyone bloody dying all the time?"

  
"Maybe they can't always be everywhere," the young soldier mumbled. "We chose to go to war. Might as well 'ave chosen to die. Can't blame 'im for ab'nd'nin' me."

  
John cursed softly, pulling the gauze tighter around Jimmy's leg, just above the wound, and pulled tight, quenching the blood flow. Maybe, if they made it out of here and to the sick bay fast enough, the boy would be all right.

  
"Hey Cap?"

  
"Yeah?"

  
"Tell me mum not to be angry with my angel? 't was me own damn fault."

  
"You can tell her yourself," John told him firmly, his voice changing from the reassuring doctor to the commanding officer as he heard the chopper coming in. There was no sweeter sound.

  
"We're getting out of here and you'll get better and they'll fly you home and you will get off the plane on your bloody own. Got it?"

  
"Aye Cap."

  
"Good. Now let's get going. I find I'm quite sick of being shot at for today. I've reached my daily quota."

  
He touched the radio on his shoulder, issuing a string of commands.

  
A moment later, his men started giving him cover, unleashing a hail of bullets on the grove of crippled trees and dry bushes that served as cover for the enemy.

  
John didn't wait around for them to regroup and resume firing, he simply dragged Jimmy up and with him, towards the chopper that had just landed to take them on. His unit followed, walking backwards as they continued providing cover.

  
John had just reached the chopper, shoving Jimmy into the waiting arms of two fellow medics, and turned around to see how his men were doing, already reaching for his own gun, when the bullet hit him.

  
Later, in the hospital, they would tell him it had been a lucky hit. He didn't feel all that lucky as pain blossomed in his shoulder and his uniform turned red with his own blood.

  
*****

  
Being forced to lie in a hospital bed when you had two legs in perfect working order currently ranked very high on John's personal list of Things That Should Not Be Allowed. He had tried to tell the doctors that he was fine with a sofa or a camp bed - hell, even a chair - and that they should give his bed to someone who actually needed it on account of being unable to stand. They had ignored him.

  
At least he had managed to get someone to tell him how the young soldier he had been working on was doing. As it turned out, he was not taking up any of the hospital beds but had a more permanent resting place waiting for him back home. John decided to take the news as proof that there was no such thing as guardian angels and if there was, they damn well sucked at their jobs.

  
And boy, was he bored, if this was what he wasted his time thinking about.

  
There was a knock on the door, startling him from his gloomy thoughts.

  
"Enter!," he barked, not at all surprised to note that he had fallen back on using his captain's voice.

  
"I see you haven't lost your touch, Watson," Major Sholto said, closing the door behind him before approaching the bed.

  
"No, sir," John replied. "I'd salute, sir, but they told me not to move the arm."

  
They both ignored that his left shoulder was the injured one while one usually saluted with his right arm. Instead, Sholto barked a laugh. "The only time anyone around here comes close to saluting is when they want to wave away a fly."

  
That may be a bit of an exaggeration but they had to get their jokes where they found them.

  
"What brings you here, Major?," John asked. "I hardly think you'd take a chopper here only to admonish me about my lack of saluting."

  
"Astute as always," Sholto grumbled. "Can't keep anything from you, can I? Bloody well, then. Good news, Watson, you're going home."

  
"Awwww," John made. "I bet the boys have missed me dearly. They've probably already divided up my stuff between them and I'll have to win it all back at poker."

  
The Major snorted but his expression remained serious. "I didn't mean the base, Watson. They're sending you back to England on the first flight tomorrow, get you started on physiotherapy and all that crap."

  
John felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. "They're shipping me back home? They can't do that, Major, I've got something planned with one of the nurses on the base."  
Sholto grinned. "And does she also have plans for you, Watson?"

  
His smirk was wicked. "Big ones, sir."

  
His superior officer laughed, then patted his uninjured shoulder. "Well, I'll give her your regrets, tell her it's nothing personal."

  
_'It was supposed to be.'_ "Come on, Major, this is just a scratch, I'll be fine in no time at all. And you need me at the base." John knew he was pleading but really, this was ridiculous. There was nothing waiting for him at home but rain and unemployment. At least here his presence was appreciated and he was needed.

  
"Lord knows I do," Sholto agreed. "Qualified medical personnel is bloody hard to come by out here. But they were very firm. You got shot clean through the shoulder, John," he added, more softly, using his first name almost by accident. "They're not allowing you to return to the fighting."

  
John wanted to protest further, to get up, put on his gear and bloody well show them - but who was he trying to kid here? He had already known this was how it was going to be from the moment he had felt the impact of the bullet. He simply hadn't wanted to believe it, choosing to live in denial instead.

  
Sholto met his gaze with a look of sympathy. He understood exactly how John felt. The time for denial was over. And so was his career in the Army.

  
The very same night, his right leg seized up for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a rather short one, I may be posting another chapter later today. Don't say I'm not spoiling you ;-)


	5. Part 2 - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, another chapter to make up for the shorter one earlier today. Next update: Sunday.

England was exactly where he had left it, though it may have moved a milimetre or two in his absence. If it had, John couldn't tell. He could, however, tell that he was obviously losing his mind because no sane person would ever even entertain so senseless a thought without being a bit wrong in the head.

  
When he got off the plane, he found that England was not only where he had left it, but also in pretty much the same state. That is to say damp.

  
Harry was there to greet him, which was good, and even hugged him fiercely, which was surpising, and told him that she and Clara had broken up, which was neither good nor surprising.

  
He spent exactly six days, four hours and twenty-seven minutes at her place, trying to ignore the booze and the sound of his sister crying herself to sleep, before he finally snapped and found himself a bedsit.

  
It was a sad place, small and colourless and smelling of stale cigarette smoke. He would have liked to spend as much time as possible away from it, walking through London, trying to reacquaint himself with his home, but the damn leg made it near impossible to get around and he hated having to rely on the cane they had given him. It made him feel like an old man and he could do well without the curious and pitying looks complete strangers gave him on the street.

  
As a result, he only left the bedsit when he had a job interview - few and far between and all of them unsuccessfull - or when he went to therapy.

  
Physical therapy for his shoulder had gone quite well, he had regained his mobility fully and only felt the odd twinge when he had overexerted himself, which was to be expected. His leg, on the other hand, continued to be a problem. Sometimes, he thought he could almost hear it laughing at any attempts at easing the pain using physiotherapy.

  
After enduring a week of that, he finally snapped and asked his physiotherapist how exactly she intended to improve a limp that was completely psychosomatic and not even supposed to exist in the first place.

  
Two days later, he had his first appointment with Ella, his therapist.

  
In hindsight, he should have known they would saddle him with a psychologist, because clearly that was what he needed - to talk about his life and the problems therein.

Except John Watson was not fully convinced he still had a life, and certainly none to talk about without boring his audience to death. To be tasked with writing a blog about all the amazing things that happened to him - such as getting rained on as he limped home from a job interview - seemed like an exercise in futility.

  
"Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you," Ella insisted, a sad expression in her eyes at his lack of cooperation.

  
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and he didn't want to, anyway.

  
"Nothing happens to me."

  
*****

  
Something did happen to him on the very next day, of course. John thought the universe was probably trying to make a point about dares and their consequences.

  
He had only just finished another blog entry about the futility of writing a blog about his experiences on account of his having no experiences worth talking about, when there was a knock on his door.

  
The number of people who knew his address was so low he didn't even need an entire hand to count them, and he wasn't expecting any deliveries. The logical conclusion was obvious, slightly drunk and named Harriet Watson.

  
John barely managed to suppress his sigh as she stumbled past him and into what passed for his flat.

  
"Hey Johnny." She hadn't called him that since they were twelve and eight years old respectively.

  
"Harry," he said shortly, disapproval written on his face. "Why don't you come in ..."

  
She slumped into his desk chair.

  
"... and make yourself at home?," John muttered.

  
Louder, he added: "Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

  
"Beer," Harry said. Of course.

  
John sighed. "Sorry, don't have anything alcoholic around." That was true. He made a point of not drinking, a very conscious decision to separate himself from his sister. "Besides, I think you've had enough already. It's not even half past eleven, for god's sake!"

  
Harry waved his words away like a particularly annoying fly. "So what? I was going through some of the stuff Clara hasn't gotten 'round to gettin' yet. I needed sumthin' to take the edge off."

  
From the looks of her, she had done a bit more than just 'take the edge off' but John wasn't about to argue. The break-up was still fresh and he knew his sister was hurting badly. Never mind that she was the one who had walked away.

  
But that was Harry - if there was a problem, her approach was to run away and hide in a bottle until it disappeared instead of talking it over like other people did. Incidentally, that very coping technique was what had brought about the end of her marriage.

  
"This place is really depressing," Harry noted, looking around the bedsit with bleary eyes. "Like woah, even my flat isn't that lifeless."

  
John shrugged. "I'll move out once I finally get a job, earn some money."

  
"What? Is the army pension not cutting it?" She looked disgusted. "I thought they'd at least pay you well for getting shot at on a regular basis, even if it was rather hit and miss."

  
"More hit than miss in one case," John pointed out. "And anyway, no one can afford London on an army pension."

  
"I told you that when you first signed up," Harry muttered, sounding a bit more sober now. The slur in her words was barely noticeable. "I told you it was a stupid idea."

  
"That stupid idea is what financed my becoming a doctor."

  
"And look what good it did!," his sister snapped. "You're stuck here, doing nothing with your life, and all that doctor's degree got you was a cane and a limp and a nice scar to show for it. Well done, Johnny boy. Mum and dad would be so proud."

  
"Well it's not like I had a whole lot of options now, is it?!," John snapped back, drawing himself up to his full height - which, admittedly, was not all that much. But he still managed to be taller than Harry and that was all that counted. "I might have been able to put myself through uni with the money I had laid aside but you know damn well that dad drank it all away."

  
Out of spite he added: "Looks like the only one doing him proud is you, following in his footsteps and all that."

  
To his complete shock, Harry's face crumpled and her bottom lip, jutting out in that stubborn pout of hers, started to tremble. "That was a really mean thing to say," she said hoarsely, standing up.

  
She reached into her pocket, pulled something out and slammed it on the desk. "Here. I actually came by to give you this. Found it earlier and don't want it anymore. Thought you might at least try to keep in contact with me."

  
"Harry-"

  
She marched to the door and pulled it open. "Call when you've decided to stop being a prat."

  
John was left alone in his flat, his body deflating a bit as all his anger fled. The mobile phone on the table seemed to stare at him accusingly. At least the display hadn't cracked when Harry had slammed it down.

  
John sighed and pocketed the device. Might as well keep it.

  
*****

  
"It's bloody irresponsible! Nevermind fucking dangerous! You'd think she'd take better care of herself, be a bit more mindful of her life ... It's like she doesn't care at all!"

  
John Watson was ranting, pacing up and down the room.

  
Ella had never before seen her patient in such an agitated state and she hoped this was the break-through she had been waiting for. She wasn't holding on to too much hope, though.

  
As she watched John pace her office, looking very much like an angry cougar locked in a cage, ranting about his sister and her tendency towards alcoholic beverages as a substitute for breakfast, lunch and dinner, Ella couldn't help but think that John Watson was -

  
"Deflecting."

  
"-do this to herself! I - What?" He paused mid-step and mid-rant and turned to look at her.

  
Ella sighed. "You're deflecting, John."

  
He gaped at her. "I'm not! How can I be deflecting? You wanted me to talk about my feelings, didn't you? So have at it, here they are. I have a lot of feelings right now!"

  
"Yes, I can hear that. So can my secretary, I'm sure. You've certainly gotten loud enough," Ella said, raising her eyebrows.

  
He glared at her and crossed his arms in front of his chest, defensive and sullen.

  
She supressed another sigh. "I asked you to talk about your feelings about your life, John. And here you are, ranting about your sister."

  
"Well, my sister is part of my life," John snapped.

  
"Is she?" Ella looked at him over her notes. "Because it seems to me you two don't really talk that often."

  
John opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, shook his head and - finally - returned to his chair. He slumped into it like a sulky teenager. Oh dear. Maybe it was time to be clearer about the point of this therapy.

  
"John, you are here because you have just been invalided home from Afghanistan. You were in the war, you were under prolonged stress for a very long time and you are repressing serious traumatic events of your time there. Ranting about your sister's drinking problem is not going to make any of these things go away."

  
She waited for a few seconds but no response came forward.

  
This time, she didn't even try to hide her sigh. "Fine. Why don't we talk about some of the things that happened to you in Kandahar?"

  
*****

  
When the therapy session of the day ended, John wasn't sure who was more frustrated: himself or Ella. What he did know, however, was that she didn't understand his problem at all. But how could he expect her to? How could he expect _anyone_ to understand that having been in the war was not at all the problem? He had only just realised it himself, after all. The real problem was of course not his having been in the war but rather the fact that he _no longer_ was.

  
And maybe, just maybe, he could deal with that. At least he thought he might be able to. But he needed something to keep him occupied while he did it, something that would stop his mind from spinning loose on its axis, dragging up all the memories he really didn't want to think about.

  
The nightmares were getting worse with each passing day, showing him blood and guts and sand and chaos, dying people - friend and foe alike - all around him. He woke up screaming more often than not, covered in a cold sheen of sweat, his heart hammering in his chest.

  
The bedsit didn't help, either. Most of the people living there were either criminals or junkies or both, almost all of them unemployed or - if they were lucky enough to have a job - underemployed.

  
He didn't want to be here, didn't feel like he belonged among the wackos and society's outcasts. What he needed was something to do, something that would make him feel useful and needed. In short, he needed a job. And soon, because he felt like the doors leading to his options were slowly closing one by one, until only two remained: a bottle of whiskey and his handgun, safely stored away in the top drawer of his desk where he saw it every time he retrieved his laptop.

  
John had never given much thought to dying before. Not when he had signed up for the army, not when he had dug around corpses during his studies, not when he tried to prevent his friends and comrades from becoming corpses themselves in Afghanistan. Hell, he hadn't even thought about dying when that damn bullet had pierced his shoulder.

  
But the more time he spent here, the longer he sat around in this tiny depressing room he called a flat, with nothing but his own memories for company ... well, that gun was starting to look friendlier every day.

  
Once, he thought about calling Harry on the ridiculously expensive phone she had given him, but then laughed at himself for even considering such an option. All that those days on her sofa had taught him was that he was very much on his own. Harry had more than enough problems of her own to deal with, she could hardly be expected to amuse her younger, crippled brother.

  
And wasn't that a word he hated? Crippled. As if he was some sort of invalid, just because he walked on a cane and his leg refused to do its work and his shoulder looked a right mess ...

  
He was losing track of his own thoughts here.

  
"Fuck this. I never used to be prone to self-pity," he muttered. "And now I'm also talking to myself. Well done, Watson, they'll have you committed in no time if you keep this up."

  
Annoyed with himself, he stood up and hobbled the few steps to the window, hoping against hope that there was something of interest going on outside. Maybe, if he caught one of the wackos lurking about outside, he could join him, start a fight. A round of fisticuffs sounded like just the thing to get his blood pumping again.

  
But of course it was raining cats and dogs outside, a weather no sane person would ever set foot out into if they didn't absolutely have to. John sighed and returned to his desk, where he proceeded to stare blankly at his blog, not writing, not really thinking, either. Just staring blankly. He was getting really good at that.

  
Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he resorted to searching for a job yet again. Maybe, if he kept digging long enough, something would pop up. And if not, well, he could always put his handgun to good use and just pop off.

  
Not yet, though.

  
For now, John Watson was determined to hold on to what little hope he had left, searching through job ads and the London phone directory in an effort to find every single hospital and clinic the city had to offer. There had to be an open position _somewhere_ , after all. He just needed to find it. And, he thought rather sardonically, it wasn't as if he had anything else to do.

  
He wrote down a couple of names and addresses, adjusted his application documents accordingly, proofread them all once more and then e-mailed them off one by one. He didn't care if some of them were unsolicited. If he waited until they posted an opening in a newspaper, it would probably already be too late. Better to ask now, even if they had no vacancies. If something came up later, maybe they would remember him and get in touch.

  
He spent his afternoon that way, then chose some evening entertainment in form of television, channel-hopping in the hopes of finding something interesting. When he stumbled upon a war documentary, he wasn't surprised at all. It stung, seeing all these men in their military gear, talking shop, going on patrols and getting shot at while he was sitting here, doing nothing except feeling sorry for himself. He didn't change channels, though, choosing instead to criticise everything the journalist claimed to know about what was going on.

  
And if some of his thoughts tried to stray back to the gun locked in his drawer, he firmly ignored it.


	6. Part 2 - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, then, the long-awaited meeting. Eternal thanks go to Ariane DeVere, who transcribed all the episodes over on Livejournal - those transcripts were lifesavers and are the reason I finished this story without getting distracted by countlessly bingewatching the entire series to catch the dialogue where I needed it.

The next day, John decided that if he spent one more day holed up in his bedsit, he really was going to eat a bullet. In an heroic attempt at self-preservation (mother nature would be proud), he took up his cane and went for a walk in Russel Square Gardens.

  
It was a pretty day for late January in London. No rain, no snow, no slick pavement for his cane and feet to slip on. In short: no reason for him to fall flat on his face in public. John was grateful for small mercies.

  
Despite the surprisingly good weather, there were only few people out and about and it took John a while to realise that maybe that was due to it being a weekday and most people having to work. He scowled, angry with his brain for reminding him once again of his continued state of unemployment. If things stayed this way, he was going to have to move out of his bedsit and maybe actually leave London. The thought made his mood even gloomier, but there was no way he would be able to afford living in this city for much longer.

  
"Watson? John Watson?!"

  
He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn't notice his name being called and then he was pissed off enough to actually consider ignoring whoever it was. But he hadn't really spoken to anyone who wasn't his therapist or Harry in far too long, so he stopped and turned.

  
A man was coming towards him, fat from too many good meals, his round face stretched into a welcoming smile, hand outstretched. He wore a ghastly tie and looked vaguely familiar.

  
"Stamford," the man said, his voice just as soft as the rest of him. "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

  
It clicked, then, and John nodded and shook his head. "Oh, Mike, right. How do you do?"

  
Mike shrugged, the perfect non-committal Englishman. "What about you, though? Heard you were somewhere abroad, getting shot at. What happened?"

  
John looked at Stamford, thought of his rather obvious cane and limp, and decided Mike was running on autopilot set to Proper English Behaviour In Casual Conversation. He decided to state the obvious.

  
"I got shot."

  
Mike decided that, as well as their unexpected meeting, was reason enough to invite him for coffee. Since John had little money and a lot of free time to spare, he gladly accepted.

  
They got two to-go cups from a street vendor and found themselves a nearby park bench. For the first time since his return, John wasn't sure if the choice to sit down was to accomodate his leg or his companion.

  
They talked for some time about the old times and John learned that Mike was now teaching at Bart's. He firmly squashed the spark of bitter resentment. It wasn't Mike's fault he had a nice, stable job while John was still looking and hitting dead ends at every turn.

  
"What about you?," Mike asked. "Looking for a nice place to settle?"

  
John smiled bitterly. "Can't afford London on an army pension."

  
"And you couldn't bear to leave it," Mike finished his thought, nodding in sympathy. He thought for a moment. Then, "Maybe you should get a flatshare or something."

  
That thought actually hadn't occurred to John yet and after giving it a moment of thought, he barked a dishonest laugh. "Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

  
Mike's laugh, on the other hand, was completely sincere.

  
John blinked at him. "What?"

  
"You're the second person to say that to me today."

  
He hesitated for just a moment, thinking of his bedsit and the gun in his drawer. It wasn't much of a decision, really. If he didn't like the guy, he'd just continue looking.  
John gave himself a push. "Who was the first?"

  
The smile on Stamford's face told him he had been waiting for just that question.

  
"Come on," he said, getting up and throwing his empty cup into the bin next to their bench. "He's probably still at Bart's, I'll take you to him."

  
John found himself nodding, feeling a hint of curiousity. If Stamford thought this guy, whoever he was, might be okay with having him for a flatmate, then he wanted to meet him. He didn't say that out loud, of course. What he said instead was: "It'll be nice to see the old place again."

  
*****

 

To John's surprise, it really was nice to be back at St. Bart's Hospital, if only to visit. The halls and rooms were familiar, the sounds and smells still the same as they had been in his days at school, except without quite so many mobile phones or laptops around. It was impossible not to reminisce about some of the things he had experienced during his time here.

  
Through that window was the tree behind which he had gotten off with Tina Marshall on graduation day when neither of them had worn anything beneath their robes. The corner over there was where he had smoked weed for the first and last time of his life and this was the room where most of his classes had been held and where he had seduced Ms Hillary, the substitute Anatomy teacher. The memory made him smile.

  
After a quick stop at his office to leave his coat, Mike led him through the endless corridors, up the stairs (which John felt barely bothered by, too busy basking in happy memories) and into the hallway that led to the labs.

  
"Ah, he's still in," Mike said, peering through the small window in one of the doors before pushing it open and beckoning John to follow him.

  
"Bit different from my day," he commented, looking around the room. They had certainly modernised the hell out of it. It was nice to know his tuition money had been put to good use.

  
As for the mysterious man looking for a flatmate, well, it was not hard to figure out who he was, seeing as there was only one person in the room already.

  
He was bent over a microscope, examining something and barely glancing in their direction before returning his attention to his work. John caught a glimpse at pale skin, dark curly hair and prominent cheekbones - just enough of an impression to make him wonder why there weren't half a dozen female (and possible some male) students around, giggling as they stared from a distance.

  
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? I've got no signal on mine," the stranger said, not bothering to look up as he spoke. And wow, that voice of his was something else, a deep and resonant baritone. Even if he didn't look like someone who had just stepped out of the latest issue of GQ magazine, John hardly doubted this guy could have anyone he wanted just by asking them with that incredible voice.

  
"Sorry, it's in my coat. Use the landline." Mike patted his jacket, looking apologetic.

  
"I prefer to text," the man said, voice clipped.

  
Well, if there was a chance they could be flatmates, John was certainly going to increase the odds in his favour. "Uh, here, take mine," he said, digging the phone Harry had given him out of his pocket. Suddenly, he was grateful to her. He would have to call and thank her in person.

  
The man looked surprised but accepted gladly enough, abandoning his microscope and walking over to John in order to snatch the phone from his outstretched hand.

  
"This is John Watson," Mike introduced him. "Old friend of mine."

  
The man turned away from John as he quickly typed a text message. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

  
John blinked. "Sorry, what?"

  
"Afghanistan or Iraq, which one was it?," the man asked, hitting 'send' with a forceful push of his thumb.

  
"Afghanistan," John said, caught off-guard. "How did you-"

  
The door opened and a young woman in a lab coat came in, effectively interrupting him.

  
"Ah, Molly. Thank you," the stranger said, reaching out for the cup she was carrying. "What happened to your lipstick?"

  
She stared at him, blushing. _'Ah'_ , John thought. _'I knew someone around here must've taken notice.'_

  
"It wasn't working for me," Molly stammered.

  
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," the man told her, turning away and marching towards the other end of the lab, his tone dismissive. "Your mouth looks too small now."

  
"Okay," she squeaked, blushing even further and beating a hasty retreat. John felt sorry for her - obviously the object of her crush was utterly oblivious. The very same object who was currently in the process of pulling on his coat.

  
"What do you think about the violin?," he asked, completely out of the blue. For a moment, John was sure the man was talking to Mike, but Mike didn't react at all.

  
"Sorry, what?," he asked, licking his lips - a nervous habit he had never quite gotten rid of.

  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the man rattled off.

  
John had the distinct impression he was having a conversation with half the sentences missing. "Who said anything about flatmates?"

  
"I did," the man said, putting up his coat collar and wrapping a blue scarf around his neck. "I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to live with and now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend just invalided back from Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap to make."

  
Now that he knew the circumstances, John felt compelled to agree. "You told him about me," he said to Mike, his tone accusing, but Stamford waved his words away. "Haven't said a word."

  
The man swooped past him, still prattling on. "I've got my eye on a nice place, together we ought to be able to afford it. Sorry, gotta dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary."  
John didn't allow himself to linger on that disturbing information. "So that's it?," he asked instead, a bit of his commanding officer tone in his voice. "We just met and now we're looking at a flat?"

  
"Problem?," the man asked, pausing on his way out of the room.

  
John glared at him, straightening up in an effort to look taller - a hopeless attempt when faced with the six foot tall man in front of him. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know your name, I don't even know where we're meeting."

  
Clearly the stranger took his words as a challenge, though there was a fleeting look of disbelief in his eyes before he opened his mouth, words pouring out as if someone had turned on a faucet. John was caught in the flood, unable to do anything but stare as the man told him everything about his own life as if they had just spent two hours talking about nothing else.

  
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."

  
The man - Sherlock - actually winked at him and left, calling out an "Afternoon!" over his shoulder before the door swung closed behind him.

  
John stared after him for a moment or two before pulling himself out of his stupor and turning to Mike for an explanation.

  
"Yeah," Mike said, smiling as if he understood exactly what it was John couldn't put into words. "He's always like that."

  
An arrogant, posh, pompous drama queen with an eerie ability to know everything about a person he had never met? ' _Well_ ,' John thought, _'at least I won't get bored.'_

  
*****

 

That had been quite unexpected, Sherlock decided as he plucked his riding crop from the autopsy table, wiping it on the white cloth covering the body. When he had bemoaned the improbability of finding a suitable flatmate for the nice place Mrs Hudson had offered him, he certainly had not expected Mike Stamford - of all people! The man was a donut on legs in looks as well as intellect - to leave for lunch and promptly return with a man who was not only looking for a flatmate but also gave every impression of meeting Sherlock's personal requirements.

  
Well, to a certain extend at least.

  
The man - _'What was his name again?'_ He went back over the conversation. _'Ah, yes. John Watson'_ \- was a bit slow on the uptake, but he was an army doctor, so he had to have at least some degree of intelligence. Not to mention that, as a soldier, he would not shy away from action and, as a doctor, was unlikely to be thrown into hysterics by the sight of a murder victim - or by certain parts of a murder victim stored in the fridge.

  
And he had allowed him to use his phone without bothering to ask what the message was about or to whom. In theory, Sherlock could have arranged a murder or the sale of state secrets, or gone through all the data on the phone - not that there was any need for that, he already knew quite enough about John Watson to be going on - without him being any wiser.

  
In conclusion, John Watson was either incredibly gullible or a living advertisement for Mr Nice Guy.

  
After some careful consideration, Sherlock decided to leave the decision up for debate until he had gathered further data. The phone had not been in John's possession for long, after all, he probably had not yet had a chance to accumulate much data on it.

  
Seeing as he had just solved the case Lestrade had seen fit to bore him with, he had the rest of the day to himself. A quick calculation of probabilities told him the chances of John Watson moving in with him were 85:15 in favour, so he decided he might as well start moving his things from his old flat in Montague Street.

  
Maybe, if he demonstrated his willingness to flatshare by simply going ahead with it, his potential new flatmate would simply follow his lead and the whole thing could be settled tomorrow.

  
His former living arrangements in Montague Street had become increasingly unsuitable as his collection of files and need for space to conduct his experiments grew. Also, the landlord had threatened not to renew his contract once he had gotten a look at the kitchen ceiling. That had been quite annoying. That burn mark had been there for six years, after all! How it could have escaped the landlord's notice until now was a mystery to Sherlock. He knew with absolute certainty that he would have noticed it immediately. And he had, seeing as he was the one responsible for its existence.

  
He hailed a cab and gave his address, reclining in the back seat and watching the city pass by outside as he pondered the changes a flatmate would bring.

  
For one, he would have to be careful about his appearance, make sure his back was never left unprotected, even when he was sleeping. Experience had taught him that he tended to fall asleep wherever he happened to be when exhaustion finally caught up with him, so he could not count on making it to bed - or even his bedroom - every time.

  
He would have to make sure that all the dimensions were kept in place all the time. It certainly would not do for anyone to walk in on him and be faced with the mess on his back. No, better to hide that away. Humans never reacted well to that sort of thing and John Watson was a doctor - he might actually demand access to the wounds, to somehow try and treat them or some other such nonsense.

  
As if Sherlock hadn't tried all of that himself already. The only treatment he had found was cocaine, to temporarily stop himself from feeling the pain, and that was no longer an option. The deal he had made with Mycroft and Lestrade still held true. He stayed off the drugs and in return Lestrade supplied him with cases to keep his mind occupied.

  
The cab pulled up to the curb and he handed the driver a handful of money, not bothering to wait for the change as he hopped out and strode to the door. There was too much to do in the short time available and he needed to rustle up his homeless network to help him move his things from here to Baker Street. In addition to saving him a lot of the actual work, this would also ensure that every member of the network would know his new address before too long. Word travelled fast in London's underbelly.

  
By the time he entered his flat on the third floor, he had already sent a message to key members of his network and started putting some of the more breakable items into their designated boxes.

  
He was just wrapping the last of his Erlenmeyer flasks when his 'helpers' showed up, falling all over themselves to help with the packing of his things.

  
"Don't even think about pilfering anything," Sherlock said. "I know exactly what I own and if anything is missing by the time I unpack these boxes, I will find you and hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?"

  
They nodded, looking suitably cowed. Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. "Also, there'll be a sufficient tip for all of you at the end of the day, if you manage not to break or lose anything."

  
The prospect of money was all it took to ensure their due diligence - he was known to be a good tipper. After all, not everyone in London had as many snitches working as his eyes and ears in the city as he did. No one did, actually. Mycroft had his bloody security cameras, Lestrade had the utterly oblivious Bobbies, and Sherlock himself had most of London's homeless population, most of them by proxy.

  
He gave them his new address and took a cab ahead with the boxes containing his most sensitive chemicals and instruments, a bag with his laptop in it slung over his shoulder.

  
Mrs Hudson was surprised but pleased to see him, as far as he could tell. She unlocked the door to the flat for him, handed him one set of keys (as if he needed something as ridiculous as keys to get past a locked door) and the information that he had found a potential flatmate had her in such a flutter that he forcibly removed her from the rooms so he could unpack in peace.

  
Still, her parting words resonated with him as she hastened down the steps. "A young man! Oh, finally. You just bring him 'round tomorrow, my dear boy, and I'll make sure he feels welcome. Oh, to see the day you'd finally find someone!"

  
Something in her intonation clued Sherlock in on the fact that 'someone' was not a synonym for 'flatmate' in this case. He frowned. What on earth was that woman blathering on about? He had no interest in forming any attachments beyond those a flatmate would require.


	7. Part 2 - Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

Sherlock spent the next afternoon holed up at St. Bart's, inspecting the body he had beaten up the day before. Initially, he had only wanted to find out which bruises formed in the half hour following the blows with the riding crop, but ... well, the body was not going anywhere, so why waste a perfect opportunity to observe the development of the bruises over a longer period? He was not one to waste a chance like that.

  
The discolourations proved quite interesting and he made a mental note to conduct further experiments using objects other than a riding crop. A whip, maybe, and possibly a baseball bat. People seemed oddly fond of using baseball bats to beat one another to a pulp these days. Best to know if there was any way to tell which blunt object had been used on a person who had been dead for a day or longer just from looking at the bruises that had formed on the body.

  
As a result of his study, he was almost late for his meeting with John Watson, who had apparently just arrived outside Baker Street when Sherlock's cab pulled up in front of 221b.

  
He stepped out of the cab, threw some cash at the driver, and moved towards his likely flatmate.

  
"Mr Holmes," John greeted him, offering his hand.

  
Oh no, that would not do. That would not do at all. He had no time for useless formalities. Best put an end to that immediately. Also, 'Mr Holmes' was Mycroft and the very thought of being compared to his brother made him shudder.

  
"Sherlock, please," he said, shaking John's hand in greeting. What a pointless gesture. The man had a strong grip, though. Preferable by far to the limp, spineless handshakes he found himself subjected to most of the time - if he bothered with accepting them at all.

  
John made a comment about the location of the flat, an obvious attempt at small talk. Sherlock suppressed a grimace. Small talk was one of humanity's inventions he could have done without - just another excuse for people to open their mouths and state dull, pointless things, most of them blindingly obvious already. He had no inclination for small talk, nor any understanding of the point in it. It would be much preferable if people simply kept their mouths shut unless they had something of intelligence to say. On closer consideration, that would make most of the population mute by default.

  
Still, it might be best to respond to John, make him feel more at ease. This flatsharing business would be much easier if his flatmate did not feel cowed by him, after all.

  
"The landlady, Mrs Hudson, owes me a favour," he said. "A couple of years ago, her husband got sentenced to death in Florida; I was able to help out."

  
That had been a fun case, very interesting, but the climate had been unbearable.

  
John looked impressed. "You stopped his execution?"

  
"Oh no," Sherlock corrected him, smirking in satisfaction as he thought of Mr Hudson. A terrible specimen of a human being. "I ensured it."

  
John opened his mouth, no doubt to enquire further, but Mrs Hudson proved her impeccable timing by opening the door with a delighted "Sherlock!" on her lips. He moved to hug her, kissing her cheek. There were few people in the world he genuinely liked, but for some reason, she had become one of them. He thought it might be her home-made shortbread.

  
"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson," he introduced, stepping back and sweeping his arm out to indicate John.

  
Predictably, the old lady beamed and ushered them in, seeming immediately taken with John. The man hadn't even said anything, for heaven's sake! Sherlock found himself both surprised and in awe. Charming people had always been taxing to him and here this nondescript man was doing it effortlessly, unconsciously even. Maybe, if he observed him long enough, he could find out how John did it and adapt his own methods accordingly.

  
The first inspection of the flat went over quite well, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Well, after he had cleared up the misunderstanding about the things scattered about and explained he had already moved in - something that didn't seem to bother John at all. Instead, the man simply dropped into the worn red armchair, stretching his leg with a sigh. He didn't even seem upset with Mrs Hudson for wrongly assuming they were a couple. Sherlock wondered how she had managed to jump to that conclusion.

  
"I looked you up on the internet last night," John said.

  
Sherlock turned towards him, focusing on his body language. He was terrible at this, but didn't want to miss anything that might clue him in on John's thought process - provided there was one. "Anything interesting?"

  
"Found your website," John said. "The Science of Deduction."

  
Sherlock couldn't help but preen. That website had taken an entire afternoon to set up, not including the hour he had spent teaching himself HTML code. "What did you think?"

  
That was really what it came down to, after all. If John ridiculed him, well, it wouldn't be very surprising, but it also wasn't going to make living together easy.

  
When John expressed doubt about his claims on his website, he felt a pang of disappointment. And yet ... there were no harsh words, only reasonable doubt, which might be expected.

  
"And I could read your military history in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," he pointed out.

  
Something flickered in John's face, but it was gone before he could identify it. "Yes, how did you know?"

  
"What about those suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that would be right up your street. Three, exactly the same," Mrs Hudson said, interrupting them just as the familiar flash of blue lights drew Sherlock's attention to the street. He smiled when he saw the squad car come to a stop. "Four. There has been a fourth."

  
Lestrade's breathless confirmation was entirely unnecessary and Sherlock barely managed to contain his excitement until after the DI had left.

  
*****

 

The decision to take John along to the crime scene was not one Sherlock made consciously. In fact, he was already halfway out the door when the thought occurred to him that an army doctor might actually make a very useful assistant. And it would be a reliable way of testing the man's suitability in a controlled environment at the same time. Very scientific.

  
He nodded to himself, snuck back up the stairs past Mrs Hudson, and made John an offer he clearly could not refuse. The hunger for action in the man's eyes was obvious, his bitterness about his psychosomatic limp and the boundaries it forced on him clear to anyone who cared to look.

  
Sherlock's analytical mind immediately drew a comparison with his own situation and he blinked in surprise, absent-mindedly hailing a cab and giving the address to the driver without really focusing. He had not expected to find himself having anything in common with an ordinary human such as John Watson. But here they were, both of them having been robbed of something they had always relied upon to carry their weight, wishing they could regain their former mobility.

  
He noticed the glances his companion was sneaking his way and sighed. "You have questions."

  
"Yes, where are we going?"

  
Another surprise - Sherlock hadn't expected that to be the first question. Second or third, maybe, though he had of course hoped John would figure that one out himself. It was rather obvious.

  
"Crime scene. Next."

  
"Who are you? What do you do?"

  
_'Ah, there we go',_ he thought. Of course he would never be able to truthfully answer the first question, and as for the second ... "What do you think?"

  
Private detective was what John thought. Not far off the mark, admittedly. Sherlock corrected him, suppressing an annoyed huff at the mention of the word 'amateur'. The police may not consult them, but they certainly hired them by the dozens. Just look at Anderson!

  
He did not say that out loud, however, choosing instead to rattle off how exactly he had read John so well.

  
_'Best get it over with as soon as possible,'_ he thought, steeling himself for the inescapable anger and rejection that were sure to follow at any moment.

  
"That ... was ..."

  
_'Horrible? Incredibly mean? Rude? How dare you? Piss off? Freak?'_ Lots of options to choose from.

  
"... amazing."

  
The merry go-round of insults in Sherlock's head screeched to a sudden halt.

  
"You think so?" Maybe he had misheard.

  
"Of course," John immediately confirmed. "It was ... extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

  
For the first time in a long time, Sherlock didn't know quite what to say. Finally, he settled on a rather weak, "That isn't what people normally say."

  
John gave him a questioning look. Good god, he really had no idea! "What do people normally say?"

  
Sherlock hesitated but decided to be honest. "'Piss off.'"

  
And John, incredible, amazing, absolutely not ordinary John, laughed. Sherlock was so thrown by this sudden turn of events, he found himself laughing along.

  
He was still smiling when they arrived at the crime scene.

  
*****

  
The glaring pink was an insult to his eyes but Sherlock quickly blocked it out, focusing on the finer details of the woman's appearance. In a way, the flashy colour was quite ingenius of her. People had probably been so blinded by her appearance they never took a closer look at the rest of her. Certainly that had to be why Lestrade's merry band of morons had not figured out the first thing about her. German, indeed.

  
John did not even flinch at the sight of her body, though, and Sherlock blamed the peculiar feeling in his chest that came dangerously close to joy for not realising sooner what the missing suitcase meant. He really should have understood immediately. Of course it would have to be pink.

  
He had already drawn up a map of Lauriston Gardens and the surrounding area in his head and narrowed it down to the area no more than five minutes from the crime scene while he was still talking to Lestrade.

  
Quickly losing his patience with the DI's inane questions, Sherlock rushed from the house, mentally separating the map in his head into sectors and starting a search of the parameter. His first stop was a nearby rooftop, a good observation place to find out if any alley or street looked particularly suitable to dump a glaringly pink suitcase. Once it bame clear that there was no such thing to be found, he went on a more specific search.

  
It was only an hour later, after he had pulled the suitcase out of a skip and dragged it back home - completely ignoring any strange looks he got for the odd choice of colour - that he remembered John. He must have accidentally left him behind at the crime scene. Not the wisest move to make, clearly.

  
Lying on his back on the couch, Sherlock slapped two nicotine patches onto the inside of his forearm and closed his eyes, trying to figure out how best to find the murderer. There had to be something that would lead him right to the killer, if only he could focus. He should text John's phone and ...

  
Phone.

  
His eyes flew open. There had been no phone in the case. There hadn't been a phone on the body, either. The balance of probability suggested it was still with her killer. Therefore ...

  
Sherlock frowned. He could not use his own phone, the number was public knowledge, so ...

  
"Mrs Hudson!"

  
The landlady didn't respond. It was early evening, she had probably turned on the telly and was watching a dull show about dull things. Cooking, maybe. Sherlock frowned.

  
Well, if Mrs Hudson was not accomodating, that was just fine. After all, he almost had a flatmate now. He would simply utilise him for this little task.

  
Nodding to himself, Sherlock typed out a message on his phone and hit 'send'. This flatmate business really was paying off well. He waited about a minute for John to reply, then sent another text. And then, after another minute, a third.

  
If he was right about John Watson's state of mind, then this last one would guarantee his appearance and until he showed up, Sherlock could do some more thinking. But first ... first he needed another nicotine patch. This was quickly turning into a three patch problem. He would have to thank the killer once he caught him. The whole case was shaping up to be quite entertaining.

  
John arrived a little while later, just as Sherlock had located and applied a third patch and was stretched out on the sofa again. He hissed in relief as the nicotine rushed through his system.

  
"What are you doing?"

  
"Nicotine patch," he said, flexing his arm and showing John the patches. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days." He should know - he had tried. "Bad news for brainwork."

  
"Good news for breathing," John commented. Of course as a medical man he would think so.

  
Sherlock huffed. "Ugh, breathing. Breathing is boring." That was another thing he knew, having done it for over two thousand years now. Not that he intended to mention that to John. And it was more out of habit than necessity, anyways. Breathing also meant smelling and there were a lot of clues to be picked up by scent alone.

  
He closed his eyes and sank back into his mind palace, spreading the facts of the case out in front of him, examining each separately and trying to figure out where it fit into the picture as a whole. The important thing was figuring out what the victims had in common. Why them? What had made the killer choose them out of all the people in London?

  
Distantly, he became aware of someone talking to him. Oh, right. John was there.

  
His eyes flew open. "Can I borrow your phone?"

  
John bristled, as was to be expected, but he did give in and handed Sherlock his phone.

  
Their fingers brushed and Sherlock clasped the phone between both of his hands. It was interesting how his thoughts immediately started circling around the phone, still warm from having been in John's pocket. A moment later, he remembered what he had needed the phone for and told John to send a text to the number on his desk.

  
He hid a satisfied smile when John snatched the phone from his hands and did as he was told.

  
A moment later, that smile turned into a frown of confusion as he noticed John pacing about, peering past the heavy curtains and outside onto the darkened street.

  
"What are you doing?" He didn't quite manage to keep the irritation out of his voice. This behaviour was terribly distracting to his brainwork.

  
"I just met a friend of yours," John said, managing to surprise him for the second time that day.

  
"A friend?" Who on earth could that have been? He didn't have friends. He had some allies and his trusted homeless network ... but no friends. Such a thing would be terribly inconvenient.

  
"An enemy," John corrected himself. "Your archenemy, according to him."

  
Mycroft, then. Well, that had been quick. Sherlock hadn't expected him to act this soon - he and John had only just met, after all. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

  
Best to start with that question, seeing as he already knew the answer and could then use John's facial expression to figure out if he was lying and how he betrayed himself when he did.

  
"Yes," John said, confirming Sherlock's suspicion.

  
"Did you take it?" Of course he had, everyone did, after all.

  
"No."

  
Sherlock was watching him closely and could detect no sign of a lie. He barely managed to hide his shocked surprise behind a scathing comment. "Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time."

  
John stared at him, open-mouthed, but didn't seem to have picked up on how thoroughly he had thrown him.

  
"Who was he?"

  
Sherlock saw no reason to lie about that. "The most dangerous man you'll ever meet and not my problem right now." The Lord knew what Mycroft could do - and so did Sherlock and anyone else who had been dead long enough.

  
"Is this about the case?," John asked.

  
"Her case," Sherlock clarified.

  
"Her case?"

  
"Her suitcase, yes," he snapped, getting up and dragging the suitcase in question out in the open. Maybe it was time to lead John along the path his thoughts had taken.

  
John followed along quickly enough, compared to Anderson who shall remain brainless. "Did I just text a killer?"

  
He didn't sound angry or afraid, but rather incredulous, as if he couldn't believe someone would be crazy enough to ever do such a thing. He didn't object, though. Sherlock smiled - and decided to take his soon-to-be flatmate out for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely response so far. I can't tell you how much each kudo and comment and bookmark means to me. You guys are fantastic!


	8. Part 2 - Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

There were many reasons Sherlock liked Angelo's restaurant. The food was good (when he deigned to eat it), they always had the table by the window reserved for him, and Angelo himself never held Sherlock's status against him. He had already been a Fallen when Angelo had gotten himself tangled up in Lestrade's investigation, and although the Italian angel could see him for what he was, he had never treated him anything but kindly.

  
In fact, Angelo had always been grateful and friendly in a way Sherlock was not accustomed to. When the loneliness got too much or the pain in his back made it difficult to focus on anything but how nice a shot of cocaine would feel, he always came here.

  
This was the first time he had ever brought anyone with him, though, and he really shouldn't have been surprised by Angelo's instant assumption that this was a date. The man was one of plenty lower angels scattered about London, a kind of food deity if you wanted. He didn't have a clue about people and relationships, but his pasta tasted heavenly - of course.

  
Sherlock waved the menu away, ignored the candle and John's protest about how this wasn't a date, and focused his attention on the address on the other side of the street. There was a chance, however small, that their killer would make an appearance and when he did, Sherlock intended to be there and catch him. Having John with him and sitting here under the pretense of a date was actually a brilliant cover.

  
He was so pleased with that discovery, he forgot an important thing people did when they went out for dinner together: they talked to each other.

  
Admittedly, John's conversation opener was quite singular. In fact, Sherlock was reasonably sure that no one in history had ever started a conversation with "People don't have archenemies."

  
Sherlock, lost in his own thoughts, his attention focused on 22 Northumberland Street, blinked and turned his head to look at him. "Sorry?"

  
"In real life," John said. "There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

  
"Doesn't it?," Sherlock asked. "Sounds a bit dull." A lot, actually. He knew he would have gone insane centuries ago if it wasn't for Mycroft. They kept each other sane with their petty squabbles.

  
"So who did I meet?" John didn't even bother to react to his statement. That would be good for working cases, his ability to not get distracted from his line of questioning. It might make hiding the truth more difficult for Sherlock himself, though.

  
"What do people have then, in their 'real lives'?," he inquired, making sure his entire body showed his disinterest in the topic.

  
"Friends," John suggested. "People they know, people they like, people they don't like." He hesitated. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

  
Oh dear. It looked like they were going to have that conversation. Sherlock had hoped to avoid the topic for a bit longer. A couple of decades, maybe. "Well, as I was saying: dull."

  
Maybe, if he was lucky, John would drop the subject and-

  
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

  
Bugger. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

  
There, that should give John something to chew on. And it had the added advantage of being true. He had never had a girlfriend and wasn't interested in getting one. As far as human bodies were concerned, he knew where his preferences lay, theoretical as the matter may be.

  
"All right," John said, processing that with barely more than a momentary start. "Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way..."

  
"I know it's fine," Sherlock told him. And wasn't it a sad statement about humanity that people had to actively approve of something so basic? If you got handed the best present of your life, the one gift you had always been waiting for, _why on earth_ would you care about what _wrapping_ it came in? Sherlock had never been able to understand that.

  
And John ... John smiled at him! Why? Why on earth was he smiling? Was he _flirting_?

  
_'Oh dear.'_

  
"So you've got a boyfriend, then."

  
"No." _'Well done, Sherlock, can't answer any faster than that, can you?'_

  
"Right. Okay," John huffed out a breath, licked his lips.

  
_'He really is flirting. Oh no, this won't do.'_

  
"You're unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good."

  
And he drew a deep breath and went back to eating, as if they had not just had an incredibly personal conversation in an Italian restaurant, the owner of which already thought they were on a date.

  
Sherlock stared at him, drank in the sight of this perfectly average, unassuming man, who had already managed to surprise him more often since yesterday than other people did in years. The military haircut, strong body hidden beneath an atrocious jumper, his easy acceptance of Sherlock so far ... he realised he may be in quite some danger here if he wasn't careful. Best nip that out in the bud, before he could be tempted to take a peek.

  
"John, uh ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for anyth-"

  
"No, no." John was shaking his head long before he'd finished speaking. "No, I'm not asking ... no." He shook his head, gathered his thoughts. "I'm just saying ... it's _all_ fine."

  
Good lord, he really meant it. Sherlock stared at him, more astonished than he cared to admit. Then he remembered John's sister Harry, who had been married to a woman. Of course John had already had occasion to review his opinion on the subject and come to a conclusion. Apparently, this was it. _It's all fine_. He gave a careful nod. "Good." And after a short pause, he added: "Thank you."

  
He knew John would interpret it as thanks for the all fine thing, but what he really meant was _'thank you for not being ordinary'_.

  
That was when the cab caught his eye and before long the two of them were running down alleyways and jumping from one rooftop to the next and he could hear John keeping up with him, his psychosomatic limp already forgotten. He couldn't remember the last time he had had that much fun while chasing a killer. He couldn't remember the last time he had had anyone to share that fun with.

  
As they leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs at 221b, laughing like maniacs, Sherlock decided then and there that he was going to keep John Watson around. Which was why he called for Mrs Hudson to tell her that John was taking the bedroom upstairs.

  
"Says who?," John asked.

  
"Says the man at the door," Sherlock told him and just then, there was a knock.

  
As John went to open it and accept his cane from Angelo, Sherlock realised with a start that, just as John had not been bothered by his leg, he himself had completely forgotten about the pain below his shoulder blades. The realisation left him reeling and he barely managed to give John a smile before Mrs Hudson was upon them.

  
"Sherlock, what have you done?"

  
For a moment, fear flooded him. Had something happened? Had she found out about his ... status? No, that could not be it.

  
"Upstairs," she said, her voice catching. He took the stairs three at a time, apprehension and annoyance boiling in his belly. If someone had deliberately upset her, heads were going to roll.

  
*****

 

_Lestrade._

  
Damn the man for ruining what had shaped up to be a perfect night. Glorious, in fact. Sherlock was more put off by that than the pretend drugs bust, though that one stung. He had been clean for years, in perfect accordance with his deal with the DI and his own meddlesome brother.

  
At least Lestrade had brought new intel on the case and Sherlock almost went weak in the knees as he finally made sense of 'Rachel'. Of course! How could he have been that blind?! Oh, this was brilliant, incredibly clever. What a shame the lady in pink was dead, he would have loved talking to her. Maybe someday, though...

  
Even as they were tracking the phone, something told him that this wasn't right. It couldn't be here, he knew that much. It certainly had not been in the suitcase. If it _was_ here, somebody else had brought it, and there was only one person who-

  
His eyes zeroed in on the badge around the neck of the cab driver standing behind Mrs Hudson. The man was even holding the phone in his hand, for god's sake! The police were all morons, blind moles with nothing to excuse their shortsightedness. Oh, he should have known immediately, should have noticed it even as he opened the back door of the cab earlier tonight. The rotten stench of hell approaching clung to this man. He should have noticed, but he habitually kept his sensory intake restricted to dimensions ordinary humans could perceive as well. It was more interesting that way and he didn't get distracted by ghosts.

  
Taking only superficial note of his surroundings, just enough to not bump into anything, Sherlock walked out the door and down the stairs, reacting to John's query with a vague response without being consciously aware of doing so.

  
He followed the cabbie down the stairs and out onto the street, where he found him leaning against his cab.

  
Oh, he really should have seen this, should have understood immediately when he realised the passenger had nothing to do with the case. Of course there were always at least two people in an occupied cab.

  
Sherlock got in with only minimal coercion. Understanding was paramount, he had to know how the cabbie had gotten his victims to swallow the poison themselves. If he understood the how, he would know the why and maybe be able to solve future cases that much faster, prevent a death or two in the process.

  
He wasn't worried about his own life - if he hadn't died of an overdose, he was unlikely to die of poison. Not to mention the fact that he did not intend to take any poison at all. There was also the police to consider. They had traced the pink phone to its exact location - 221b Baker Street. If they had half a brain between them, someone would notice it was now moving and would then figure out the correlation.

  
So he sat in the cab, watched the city pass outside and traced their route on his mental map of London, idly calculating likely destinations as the cabbie prattled on about his website and how impressive it was. 'Proper thinking' indeed. Sherlock paid just enough attention to make sure he wouldn't miss anything crucial about the man's motivation, should he choose to mention it.

  
When they arrived at the Roland Kerr Further Education College, Sherlock was already feeling a tad disappointed. They could have arrived here ten minutes earlier if he had been driving, and when his would-be-killer actually showed him the gun he used to force his victims out of the car, the mystery lost most of its appeal.

  
"Dull," Sherlock criticised, following him out of the cab and into the building. The man was correct in one thing: he didn't need a gun to get Sherlock to follow him. He wanted to know how and if the reason was the gun, he would hit him over the head with the thing. The promise of "it gets better" barely served as consolation.

  
And yet, things did turn rather interesting. A guessing game. Oh well. That was at least mildly creative, though not half as good as he had hoped.

  
In revenge, Sherlock asked for the gun, just to screw with the killer's head.

  
When the small flame shot from its mouth, he smiled. "I know a real gun when I see it."

  
"None of the others did," the man said. His confidence had left him, though he tried to hide his disappointment. The game was lost, Sherlock had figured him out already, there was no way to kill him now.

  
"Well, this has been very interesting," Sherlock said, getting up. "I'm looking forward to the court case." Because of course there would be one. He had already gotten more than enough information to identify the man by name and have him arrested.

  
"Just out of curiousity, which one would you have chosen?"

  
Sherlock paused.

  
There it was again, that need to be right, self-affirmation as much a drug to him as cocaine. He wanted to know he was right just so he could feel he had not lost all his worth. There wasn't much of that left. He was a Fallen, robbed of everything that defined him, robbed of the wings that set him apart - what good was he to anyone? The only thing he could still do, had always done, was think.

  
So he turned back and plucked a pill from the table, giving the cab driver a contemptuous glare. That had hardly been a challenge at all and even if he was wrong - which he knew he wasn't - he was not likely to suffer any harmful consequences. It was a sad thought, really. He was getting quite sick of all this, tired of the sense of loss and the pain in his back. At least the latter had been almost negligible today, though he did not bother to think about the probable reason.

  
At least the killer was true to his word, raising his own pill to his lips with barely a hint of hesitation. Well, of course. He was already dying, no reason to start worrying about it now.

  
Sherlock locked eyes with the man, his gaze a challenge even as his opponent's words washed over him - completely useless, of course. If there was a way for him to end it, he would have found it by now. The poison was not going to do it for him.

  
He raised the pill to his lips, just inches from his mouth ... and then the window shattered and the killer stumbled back, blood blooming from a wound in his chest even as he collapsed. Sherlock ducked out of range (he had no idea if a bullet might kill him but it was certainly going to be painful and he wanted to spare himself any further pain) but when no further shots followed, he jumped across a table and went to look out of the window. There was an open window on the building opposite, at just the right height for a sniper, but he couldn't see anyone.

  
Since there was nothing he could do about the shooter - and nothing he particularly wanted to do, apart from congratulating him on his marksmanship - Sherlock turned his attention back to the man who lay dying on the floor. There was still the name of his sponsor to be gained, after all.

  
Gain it he did, through the liberal application of questionable interrogation techniques.

  
_'Moriarty. Could it be? Is there finally someone interesting out there?'_

  
The question kept him so occupied he barely noticed the police arriving until he found himself sitting in the back of an ambulance, a disgustingly orange blanket draped around his shoulders and Lestrade approaching him with the look of a completely befuddled poodle.

  
Two officers a couple of feet away were talking about the slug dug out of the wall and he listened with half an ear even as he asked Lestrade about the blanket.

  
"It's for shock."

  
Now that was just plain ridiculous. "I'm not in shock."

  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Some of the guys want to take photographs."

  
Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response, knowing full well that Lestrade would be the first to whip out his phone if he did anything worth taking a funny picture of.

  
"So, the shooter," Sherlock said, effectively changing the topic. "No sign?"

  
Lestrade gave a minute shake of his head. "Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would've had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but ... got nothing to go on."

  
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." There was plenty to go on if you bothered to stop and think for a minute, after all.

  
The DI gave him a long, incredulous look, then sighed in defeat. "Okay. Give me."

  
Sherlock stood, taking a second to adjust to the weight of the blanket around his shoulders. It felt ... almost familiar. Not the way his wings had, of course, but there was a faint similarity. Was this why humans used them all the time? He shook the thought from his head and continued.

  
"The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. Kill shot from that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot we're looking for. But not just a marksman. Fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service-"

  
Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his head and it took a moment to process John, standing on the other side of the tape by the squad car, the very picture of an innocent bystander. "- and ... nerves of steel ..."

  
Sherlock trailed off, staring. _'No. It can't be.'_

  
He narrowed his eyes but John was still there, hands clasped behind his back, looking around in the manner of a curious civilian who had seen the flashing lights and decided to see what was going on. John, who had just been shipped back home from Afghanistan. John, who hadn't even blinked at the sight of a dead body and who had been abducted by Mycroft and still dared to tell him no.

  
_'Holy shit.'_

  
He seldom swore, but this moment definitely called for it, if only in his own mind.

  
Distantly, he became aware that the silence had dragged on too long. "Actually ... do you know what? Ignore me."

  
"Sorry?" Lestrade sounded even more incredulous than he looked.

  
"Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh, the shock talking." He turned to leave.

  
"Where are you going?"

  
"I just need to, uh, talk about the, uh, the rent." Even in his own head, the excuse sounded feeble.

  
"But I still got questions for you," Lestrade protested, apparently unwilling to let this go.

  
"Oh, what now?," Sherlock asked, annoyed. "I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!"

  
He held up one corner of the offending item, in case the DI had somehow managed to miss it so far.

  
"Sherlock!" The man wasn't having any of it.

  
"And I just caught you a serial killer," he told him, then paused to think about that. "More or less."

  
Lestrade crossed his arms, giving him a look that plainly said: _'I know you are hiding something but I am going to let it slide for now.'_ Out loud, he said: "Okay... We'll pull you in tomorrow, off you go."

  
He even had the gall to nod towards John.

  
Sherlock left him standing there before Lestrade had a chance to think about their exchange and realise who Sherlock's rent and the cab driver's death had in common.

  
He walked straight toward John, stuffing the blanket into one of the squad cars as he went.

  
"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," John said conversationally. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

  
Sherlock smiled ever so slightly. "Good shot."

  
"Yes," John agreed, not batting an eye. "Yes, must have been, through that window."

  
"Well, you'd know," Sherlock told him, feeling almost giddy with glee. This man had just killed for him! _To save his life!_ To save _him_! It was so extraordinary, he didn't quite know what to do with it.

  
"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case."

  
There was a beat of silence as John cleared his throat and looked around, nervous that someone might have overheard.

  
"Are you all right?" The question slipped out before he could stop it. John didn't _look_ upset, but Sherlock was starting to think that his flatmate may not be as easy to read as he had initially assumed.

  
"Yes, of course I'm all right." He even had the audacity to look slightly confused by the question.

  
"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock reminded him.

  
"Yes, I...," John began, then trailed off. They stared at each other in silence for the span of two heartbeats. John gave a curt nod. "That's true, innit?" And he actually smiled. " _But_ he wasn't a very nice man."

  
Sherlock thought about that for a second. "No. No he wasn't really, was he?"

  
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," John added as they turned to leave.

  
The words startled a laugh out of him. "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here."

  
John laughed. "Stop. Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it."

  
"You're the one who shot him, don't blame me," Sherlock said, grinning, then became aware of Sergeant Donovan strolling past them.

  
"Keep your voice down!," John admonished, laughter still in his voice. He too noticed Donovan. "Sorry, it's just, um, nerves."

  
"Sorry," Sherlock echoed automatically. And when had he last been polite by accident?! John was a bad influence on his sociopathic behaviour.

  
"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?," John asked carefully.

  
Sherlock, realising he was walking too quickly, turned back to him and lied. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

  
"No you didn't." And apparently, John saw right through him. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

  
It was such an astute deduction it left Sherlock reeling. "Why would I do that?"

  
John didn't miss a beat. "Because you're an idiot."

  
Something weird was going on with Sherlock's face and it took him a moment to recognise the muscle movement. He was smiling. A real, honest smile. If anyone else had dared to call him an idiot, they would be bleeding for it, but John ... he was starting to think that John required a completely new category of human to be invented just to sort him somewhere. He should get started on that immediately.

  
Hence: "Dinner?"

  
John seemed pleased by the suggestion. "Starving."

  
Sherlock made a mental note that of course ordinary humans required nutrition frequently and put it onto the pinboard in the front hall of his mind palace where he'd be unlikely to miss the reminder. He searched his mental map for a suitable place to eat.

  
"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

  
John was distracted from answering by the arrival of a car. "Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

  
"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock growled, not pleased at all with Mycroft showing up here. Couldn't the fat baboon leave him alone for longer than a week at a time?

  
He stalked over to him and his assistant, his glare already in place, annoyed by the way Mycroft hid his wings even from him instead of just keeping them out of the dimensions humans could perceive. Up until today, he had always been secretly glad about it but now the obvious lack only drew his attention to what wasn't there.

  
Mycroft, perceptive as always, noticed his unease and allowed the wings to show. Their impeccable, unblemished white glowed like freshly fallen snow on a mountain far away from humans and air pollution. Sherlock's scowl deepened, but he couldn't bring himself to feel envy. Not today. As far as he knew, no one had ever killed for Mycroft without a personal gain or obligation guiding them.

  
"So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited of you," Mycroft drawled, looking at the mass of Scotland Yard's finest with all the contempt of a passionate gardener who had just discovered lice on his favourite roses. "Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

  
It was as close to openly asking if Sherlock was keeping his end of the deal as Mycroft would ever get. He responded in kind, with a vicious: "What are you doing here?"

  
"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

  
Which meant he didn't like the combination of Sherlock and pills, no matter their nature. He had probably solved the entire mystery the moment he had first heard about the case.

  
Sherlock scowled. "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

  
Mycroft didn't take the bait. "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

  
_'We used to,_ ' Sherlock thought. _'And even then you always looked down on me.'_

  
Out loud he said: "Oddly enough, no!"

  
"We have more in common than you like to believe," Mycroft told him - not very kindly in Sherlock's opinion. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

  
That much was true. Their parents - or rather, the two people who thought they were his and Mycroft's parents and quite happy with their lot - and especially their mother, were quite upset with the way they always argued. But there was nothing else to be done. They couldn't get too close, it would upset everything and endanger both brothers. Not to mention those around them.

  
Still, the reminder was not appreciated. "I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

  
No, they both had their fair share of that.

  
Mycroft was about to reply when John interrupted - quite bravely. "No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

  
"Mother, our mother," Sherlock explained. There was no getting around the introductions now. "This is my brother, Mycroft."

  
John looked at Mycroft as if Sherlock had just told him the truth about him.

  
"Putting on weight again?," he snapped, to distract his brother from John's staring.

  
Mycroft gave him a haughty look, his wings beating lazily without stirring the air at all. "Losing it, in fact."

  
Sherlock wondered how antagonistic their conversation must look to others, their bodies, expressions and voices all expressing dislike when in reality the exchange boiled down to "How are you doing?" - "Fine". Talking in subtext had been their chosen method for so long, he couldn't remember when they had first started. Probably while they had still been alive.

  
He confirmed to John that yes, of course Mycroft was his brother, though criminal mastermind was quite suitable as well. And, since they had to give some explanation for the aura of power surrounding his brother, strong enough for even humans to pick up on, he corrected Mycroft's standard lie of occupying a minor position in the British government.

  
"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

  
Mycroft sighed but didn't protest. Sherlock had effectively informed him that John could be trusted and he knew his brother wasn't about to doubt his judgement. At least not openly. Deciding that the entire conversation was ready to be finished and remembering that John was hungry, he put an end to the charade, his parting shot as acid as always.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

  
He left his brother standing there and continued on his way.

  
A couple of seconds later, after a short and rather confused conversation with Mycroft, John followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments, kudos and bookmarks. You guys absolutely make my day!


	9. Part 3 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos. Have a look at Sherlock's past life!

**Part III**

 

_"Each day I am with you is better than the last, and my first day with you was the best day of my life."_  
_\- Unknown_

 

**Chapter 1**

 

The weeks following the case of the murderous cabbie were a revelation. Sherlock didn't even bother to try and draw comparisons - he already knew he had never met anyone like John Watson, much less been friends with them.

  
And they were. Friends, that is.

  
They quickly arranged their lives in a way that made it possible for them to share a flat without constantly butting heads. It was a very simple solution, actually. John, much to his own surprise, ended up with the day to day chores, including, but not limited to, shopping, doing the dishes, cleaning up after Sherlock and - perhaps the most important task of all - serving as a sounding board for the detective himself. Sherlock's contribution was to provide the adventures that kept John's blood singing and heart racing.

  
If there were no cases to be solved and no interesting experiments going on, Sherlock deigned to lounge around on the sofa and think, which was beneficial to John because the possible ways of making a mess while lying motionlessly were rather limited.

  
Mostly, though, Sherlock spent his time watching his new flatmate.

  
It had been a very long time since he had last shared living quarters with anyone else and of course everything had changed in the interim. Watching John was both fascinating and educational.

  
Sherlock learned that John didn't like sugar in his tea and that he always checked international news first while reading the newspaper, paying special attention to any war commentary. Once or twice, he found a picture of one of his former comrades in arms - pictures which he stared at for a long time with a faraway look in his eyes that suggested he was recalling memories associated with the men in the photographs. Sherlock was curious but never quite dared to ask - there seemed an unspoken agreement not to talk about John's experiences in the war.

  
In return, John never once asked questions about his drug habit. Sherlock had already confirmed that he was clean when Lestrade had done his little "drug bust" and there was nothing else to be said on the topic. He felt oddly grateful for that - it was bad enough already without being constantly reminded of how good the cocaine had made him feel.

  
The pain in his back that had been almost unnoticeable during the investigation of the serial suicides had returned with a vengeance that very same night. Sherlock, not wanting to draw attention to it, had claimed tiredness and locked himself in his room. There, curled up on his bed, he had passed the night going back and forth between fitful sleep and bouts of wakefulness punctuated by agony.

  
The temporary relief only meant that the pain now felt worse than it had before and it took him almost the entire night to rebuild his mental shields, locking the pain in a vault deep down in the cellar of his mind palace.

  
He fell asleep in the early morning hours and woke sometime later when John took a shower in the adjoining bathroom.

  
That was another thing Sherlock learned quickly - John preferred to shower in the mornings. And, sometimes, in the middle of the night. It didn't take long to figure out the reason for that peculiar habit. Nightmares, of course.

  
Since Sherlock himself didn't require much sleep, he spent many nights in the sitting room, quietly working on his research or an experiment. Sometimes he even went out to prowl the streets, updating his mental map as he went, but it was the nights he stayed in when the nightmares became obvious. Sherlock may not be the most considerate person, he would be the first to admit, but even if he sometimes didn't even notice whether John was home or not, it would have been quite difficult not to hear him scream in his sleep.

  
It took almost a week to figure out that the best method to wake John was by staying either downstairs or just outside his door and play a terribly screeching noise on his violin. He had learned that the hard way when he tried to shake his flatmate awake during one of his nightmares and had just barley managed to avoid the fist aimed in his direction.

  
The strength of the blow may have been enough to knock him unconscious otherwise.

  
Sherlock always made sure to morph the noise into a more pleasant melody the moment John woke. In the morning, he would get scolded for playing in the middle of the night while people were trying to get some sleep, and that was that. Neither of them mentioned the nightmares.

  
Things were good - so good, in fact, that Sherlock was starting to feel suspicious.

  
John was out, doing the shopping or something equally tedious, and he was stretched out on the sofa, thinking hard.

  
A thought had popped into his mind that morning when John had handed him a cup of tea with two sugars and a smile, just the way he liked it. Well, the sugars. The smile was not something Sherlock had heretofore associated with tea but it did seem to improve the taste in some way that he could not quite define.

  
That was what had first roused his suspicions and now that the thought was there, he couldn't lock it away again.

  
Did he dare? Was he willing to take the risk, to actually _look_ at John and see all there was to him?

  
He grimaced. There was always the possibility that it wouldn't work, of course. It had been a very long time since he had last tried and that had been before he had fallen. Maybe he wasn't even capable of _looking_ anymore. But no, he could still see dimensions hidden from ordinary humans just fine. There was no way of telling if he was still able to perceive _this_ , though.

  
And then there was the fact that every time he had tried so far, the sting of rejection had been like a physical blow, leaving his eyes burning so badly he had been forced to curl up in a dark room with a cool washcloth over his face for two days. Three days, the last time he had tried. At least back then he had been able to claim a vicious headache and lick his wounds in private, but the memory still stung.

  
Fighting a sudden chill, Sherlock allowed his mind to wander as he remembered the last time he had dared to look at another person's soul.

  
*****

 

_Sometime in the 1770s_

  
The university was filled with students from all over England, most of them heirs to large estates or younger brothers of said heirs trying to pass their time in a way that would keep them out of the war. Most of the young men only had one goal and that was to enjoy themselves in every possible way.

  
Sherlock Holmes fit in amongst the crowd with ease. He was tall, handsome, well-educated and impeccably dressed - all things that earned him respect and discernment among his peers. Unfortunately, it also meant they frequently tried to befriend him in an effort to secure a connection with his family. As far as they - and anyone else - knew, he was the second son of a rich earl who seldom came to Town but had a habit of spending his money whenever he pleased, which was frequently.

  
Sherlock's only solace was that at least there were no females around that required to be entertained and treated like princesses for the happenstance of being born with breasts. He didn't understand why his classmates were so enthralled by them - most of the ladies he had met so far had little more than air in their heads. That, and the ability to set a dinner table in two or three foreign languages or some other such nonsense. He had no desire to discover more about them then he had already been forced to learn.

  
His unsocial behaviour and tendency to spend his time in the university's library instead of one of the many clubs or brothels in Town quickly earned him a reputation as being "a queer fellow" who was best left alone. Incidentally, that was exactly what he had wanted all along.

  
He ignored the other students, got into heated debates with his professors and struck up a peculiar friendship with the very last person he had ever expected to befriend - an old clergyman who had been employed as a spiritual advisor by the university.

  
The man had what was commonly called 'the Sight' and the very first time he met Sherlock in the - thankfully deserted - library, he had fallen to his knees in prayer. He had turned down an aisle and found Sherlock bent at a precarious angle to inspect the lower titles on a bookshelf, his wings spread to help him keep his balance. The whole thing could hardly have been more incriminating.

  
Sherlock, who had experienced such a thing before once or twice, was forced to admit to his own existence, bless the clergyman and - once he had made it clear that his only mission at the university was to study biology - promise to come around for tea sometime.

  
Mr Cunningham proved quite intelligent, once he had gotten over his initial speechlessness and stammering. Both of which could be excused on the grounds of his never having seen an angel before. Luckily, his very profession made it important for him to keep Sherlock's secret and he did so happily. And if some of his questions were a bit too curious, that could also be overlooked.

  
Sherlock quickly figured out that Mr Cunningham was the most intelligent man on the entire campus, including the faculty, and consequently made sure to visit him at least three times a week. His fellow students took him for a particularly religious young man and soon assumed he intended to take orders once he had completed his studies. They could not have been more wrong.

  
It was after one of these visits, as Sherlock took the shortcut through the shrubbery, nibbling on a piece of cake Mr Cunningham had pressed him to accept, when a small but ferocious little dog came running out of the bushes, almost collided with him and bit him in the ankle - quite possibly more out of shock at suddenly being confronted with a living creature than out of any malice.

  
The sudden flare of pain made Sherlock scream and drop the cake and as he heard footsteps approaching, he thought it would be best to look as human as possible. He did so by dropping to the ground and clutching his wounded ankle while cursing at the dog - making sure not to use any truly harmful curses, of course.

  
"Oh no! Irving, heel! Bad dog!" A young man had appeared on the scene, breathless, his face flushed from the exertion of running after his dog. "Good lord, are you hurt?"

  
Sherlock examined his ankle, careful to shield the wound from the young man's gaze. It was already closing up. "Not as much as I first thought," he replied. "I yelled mostly out of surprise. I certainly didn't expect to come upon so ferocious a dog. Had I known, I would not have made use of this shortcut."

  
The young man offered him his hand to help him off the ground, apologising profusely and insisting on accompanying Sherlock back to his room so they might examine his injury at leisure and not get his breeches any dirtier than they had already become.

  
Not seeing another way out of it, Sherlock accepted.

  
It soon transpired that the young man's name was Victor Trevor, that he had only arrived here today and was to take over his father's estate once he had finished his studies and come off age. As a matter of fact, Victor only told him his name while Sherlock was the one to rattle off the rest of the information, earning himself a surprised and disturbed look.

  
"Why, I never!," Victor cried. "How could you possibly have known that, Mr -?"

  
"Sherlock, please," Sherlock said. "It was obvious that you are new here because you would have known not to let your dog run free otherwise - pets are not permitted on the premises, therefore any student keeping one against regulations would be careful not to let it out of his sight. And your clothes show clear signs of travel, so you only just arrived and have not yet had the time to bathe and dress in clean garments."

  
Victor laughed and promised to take better care hiding Irving from prying eyes from now on and then they had reached Sherlock's room, whereupon Victor consulted his papers and exclaimed in surprise upon finding that it appeared they were to share.

  
Sherlock would have preferred to keep the room to himself but it could not be helped and he supposed he could have ended up with a far less friendly roommate than Victor Trevor. The young man did not seem half so unbearable as everyone else on campus, which, coming from Sherlock, was quite a compliment indeed.

  
*****

 

Victor Trevor may be new, but it took him only two days to stop getting lost on the way to the lecture halls. By the end of his first week, he knew the names of most of the students and all his professors. When week two came to a close, he had already established himself as everyone's favourite. He was well-liked by all and welcome wherever he went.

  
Sherlock watched the whole development in astonishment, trying to figure out how on earth Victor did it. But there did not seem to be a trick to it. He simply smiled and talked pleasantly and appeared genuinely interested in the concerns of those around him. It was fascinating to watch.

  
Even more interesting was that Victor genuinely seemed to like everyone else, too. Sherlock had never heard him say a cross word to or about anyone. Surprisingly, this included Sherlock himself.

  
They shared a room on campus and while Sherlock had always stayed away from other students, Victor was constantly inviting friends over or went out visiting others and more often than not he dragged Sherlock along. Neither Sherlock nor the other students were pleased about this, but both sides chose to humour Victor and regarded one another with polite disinterest.

  
Sherlock quickly became aware of the fact that, although Victor was happy to talk to anyone he happened to come across, he seemed to prefer to spend his time with Sherlock himself. He inquired after his experiments and reading habits and wanted to know about his interests and plans for the future, which Sherlock was forced to either outline vaguely or outright lie about.

  
He could not help but be drawn in by Victor's enthusiasm, however. Before long, Sherlock found himself sharing amusing memories and interesting scientific discoveries, though he always had to make sure he didn't accidentally talk about something that had happened before Victor had even been born. It was a small price to pay for finally having someone to talk to, though.

  
Sherlock had walked this earth for far too long already, and only with his brother for company. After the first millennium, there simply was not much left to say to one another and Sherlock longed for a fresh face, a different mind to engage with. And, deep down in his soul, he longed for a partner.

  
When he had died and become an angel all those years ago, he had found out about souls. The short version was that there was a name in the back of his head, a name that was not his but belonged to him all the same. Somewhere out there existed a soul with that name on it, someone made just for him.

  
The long version was that Sherlock had spent almost two millennia searching for that someone and had never found them. Sometimes, he had thought he had. And once he was fairly certain that he had found that one soul meant for him, regardless of the human body it had gotten stuck in, he had taken step two - which was to actually look at that person's soul.

  
The first time he had tried, it felt as if he was simultaneously being stabbed in the stomach and getting his eyes burned out of his head with glowing hot irons. The pain of rejection was physical as well as emotional and it was terrible.

  
After a while, he considered giving up on trying to look, knowing that once that person died, they would find him. He didn't want to wait for that, though. He wanted to meet them while they were still alive, wanted to share that life with them. So he continued looking.

  
It was almost two months after they had first met that Sherlock sat at his desk, quietly working on an essay late at night while Victor slept, when he found his gaze drawn to the young man and felt unable to look away.

  
It was no surprise that people liked him. Blond curls and baby blue eyes would do that to people, Sherlock had learned. Amusingly, they considered the combination to be an 'angelic' look. He had rustled the feathers of his wings and laughed quietly to himself the first time he heard the description.

  
But now ... he stared. He stared the way the young, airheaded girls did, the way some of the other boys stared even though they tried so hard to hide it. Sherlock stared at Victor, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on the wall and realised that he was staring in the exact same way that Victor Trevor stared at him when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking.

  
He felt like he might be having a revelation and decided to investigate this surprising development further. For the rest of the night, his essay lay forgotten as he fought to work up his courage.

  
*****

 

The next morning, Sherlock skipped his lecture and instead sought counsel in the university's chapel. Of course for an ordinary person a chapel was no closer to God or Heaven than any other place on earth, but it was always quiet and peaceful and most often also completely deserted.

  
He spent almost two hours sitting on the front pew, staring at the colourful glass windows above the altar as he tried to come to a decision.

  
It was there that Mr Cunningham found him when he came to exchange some of the candles.

  
"What brings you here, my son?"

  
Once he had gotten over his initial shock at seeing an angel, he had quickly returned to treating Sherlock like any other member of his parish, although clearly his favourite. Sometimes, they got into heated debates on religion - debates which Sherlock always won due to his having first-hand information.

  
Today, he was not up for a debate, however. "I'm merely looking for a quiet place to think," he replied. "It gets awfully loud on campus at times."

  
Mr Cunningham smiled and abandoned his candles to come and sit beside him, mirroring his position with hands clasped and forearms resting on his thighs. For a time, they sat in silence.

  
"You seem troubled," the clergyman finally said, his voice low.

  
Sherlock sighed.

  
"Would you like to talk about it?"

  
He had not actually meant to talk about it, but now that the option was there, he thought perhaps that was the reason he had come here in the first place.

  
"Not particularly," he muttered. "But I believe I need to."

  
Mr Cunningham nodded sagely. "Needs must. That is the way of the world, my son."

  
Sherlock sighed again. "I do not know where to start."

  
"The beginning is usually the right place to begin a tale," the priest told him - quite correctly.

  
He nodded. "There is a ... a name, if you will, in my head. It's not a name you would recognise or even be able to hear. I've known that name ever since I became ... what I am, and I've been searching ..."

  
Cunningham looked at him with interest. "Whose name is it, then?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "That's the point. I don't know. Somewhere out there is a soul bearing that name, a soul I must find. But ... you see, that soul may not have been born yet and until such a time there is no way of finding it at all. It won't matter if that person dies but ... I'd rather get to know them first, share their life. I have been searching all this time."

  
"So what you are looking for is a ... a kind of soulmate then, yes?," the clergyman asked, as usually hitting the nail right on the head. When Sherlock nodded, he continued. "How would you know such a person?"

  
"First, there'd have to be some sort of initial attraction, I suppose," Sherlock said. "I don't know much about the exact process, but it would be someone I'd get along with, someone who just ... fit. And once I suspect that may be the case, I can dare to look at their soul, to see their true name and compare it to the one in my head."

  
The priest nodded in understanding. "It is a difficult thing to do then, looking at a soul?"

  
Sherlock's smile was wry. "If I look at one that is not the one I'm looking for, it is extremely painful, emotionally as well as physically. The blow of rejection is ... quite strong."  
That was a fine understatement. He strongly suspected that an ordinary human would go insane if made to feel such pain, or maybe even die. It was a good thing they were unable to do so.

  
Mr Cunningham, who really should get far more credit than he did, thought about that for a while before speaking again. "I presume that you have found such a person, then? Someone you have ... suspicions about?"

  
The confession, when it came, was less than a whisper. "Yes."

  
"And you wonder if your suspicion is worth the risk of pain?"

  
"More pain," Sherlock corrected. "I have had occasion to hope before. Needless to say, I have always been mistaken so far."

  
Some of that pain must be reflected in his voice, for Mr Cunningham reached out and clasped his hands, squeezing in silent support. "And have you told him?"

  
Sherlock almost fell off the pew in surprise. "What makes you think I am talking about a man?"

  
In times as these, even uttering such a suspicion could ruin a person's reputation forever, or worse.

  
The clergyman smiled. "It did not escape my notice that you never specified the gender of a soulmate."

  
"True enough," Sherlock said. "This culture you live in is very narrow-minded and not likely to change their opinions anytime soon. But what does it matter to me what shape my soulmate takes? I know their name if not their face, have known it all this time. If it is the person I am thinking of, he is alive now and therefore wasn't born when I first heard the name in my head. When I am finally given this gift, why should I worry about the wrapping it comes in?"

  
Mr Cunningham sighed and shook his head. "These are wise words from a wise man," he said. "Yet I myself cannot condone them. My upbringing and education all aimed to make me see any such union as ungodly."

  
The word made Sherlock snort. "Ungodly, indeed. If it wasn't intended to happen, no human would ever feel this way, sir. It is an argument I cannot win, however. Perhaps, in a couple of centuries, the populace will change its collective mind, but I hold on to little hope. It is none of your concern at any rate."

  
The clergyman nodded. "Certainly. I am an old man already, and unlikely to live much longer than another decade or two. I do not fear death - you have given me that much, my son. In return, I shall keep your secret and not breathe a word of anything you taught me." He smiled sadly. "No one would believe me if I did, and I might be stripped of my office for some of it."

  
Sherlock nodded his agreement. "You cannot take the risk," he said, suddenly coming to a decision. "I, however, can."

  
He stood from the pew, squeezing Mr Cunningham's shoulder. "I thank you for your council. As always, it has been most welcome. Good day."

  
"Good luck, my son," the clergyman called after him.

  
Sherlock took a risk the very same night, once Victor had fallen asleep.

  
Despite his decision having been made in the chapel that morning, he still required several hours to gather his courage. Finally, in the early morning hours, he made the necessary preparations in form of a bucket of cold water and a washcloth - just in case. Cross-legged, he sat on his bed, staring at Victor sleeping on the other side of the room.

  
His face was turned toward him, lax with sleep, his lashes ridiculously long, his unruly mop of curls a golden halo around his head. This was the face of a man who had no care in the world, a great life and bright future ahead of him. He looked absurdly beautiful.

  
Sherlock looked at him and thought of all the times Victor had looked back, all the lingering touches and too-long looks, the hushed whispers in the dark and the silences filled with words they could not say out loud. He remembered the way Victor had stroked his cheek the other day, thinking him asleep, and how he had yearned to open his eyes and respond in kind - anything to dispel the rising tension between them.

  
But he had not. Instead, he had remained still and motionless, feigning sleep as Victor sighed and went to his own bed. He could not take this step until he was certain. And to be certain, he had to look.

  
Drawing one last, deep breath, Sherlock looked at Victor and concentrated, all his focus on the other man, the one who may just be the one he had been looking for all his life.

  
For a moment, his soul shone like glittering water in the sun, beautiful and vivid the way all souls were.

  
And then Sherlock found the name written across it and the glittering water turned to fire, burning his eyes and his face and his soul, turning everything to ash and there was nothing but blind agony.

  
*****

 

"Sherlock?!"

  
He jerked, his eyes flying open. There was nothing burning him now, the pain nothing but a lingering memory. Instead, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and concerned blue eyes gazed down at him. Familiar. Not Victor's.

  
John stood by the sofa, still wearing his coat and boots. "Are you all right? You were whimpering."

  
"I'm fine," Sherlock sighed, trying to calm his breathing, shoving the remembered pain far away from his consciousness. "Just a dream, nothing more. I must have drifted off."  
That statement did nothing to dispel the worry on John's face, however. Instead, he frowned. "I told you you need to sleep more," he said gently. "It's not healthy, staying up for days on end. Your body will betray you sooner or later."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, as was his custom when John scolded him about his habits. "I sleep between cases," he reminded his flatmate. "I certainly didn't mean to now, though. I was thinking and must have drifted off."

  
That was a lie, but he could hardly tell John he had been thinking of the last time he had come dangerously close to loving someone, well over two hundred years ago.  
Which brought him back to his current problem.

  
As John patted his shoulder and finally took off his coat and boots before going into the kitchen to make them tea - a habit so deeply ingrained that Sherlock wondered if any force on earth could possibly prevent John from making tea first thing upon arriving home - he returned to his memories for a short moment.

  
When Victor had woken the next morning to find Sherlock curled up on his bed, a wet washcloth pressed to his face and silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, all he could get out of him was that Sherlock was suffering a terrible headache and wanted to be left alone.

  
He had left the university four days later, bidding goodbye to no one but Mr Cunningham, and never saw Victor Trevor again after that. But he still remembered the burning pain and the excruciating stab of rejection he had experienced when he had finally caved at four in the morning and chanced a look.

  
After that, he had never tried again.

  
_'And I won't try now'_ , he told himself, suppressing a shiver as John handed him his tea with two sugars and a smile, their fingers grazing. _'The risk is too great.'_


	10. Part 3 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

About two months after their adventure with the murderous cabbie, they chased down a man who had thought it a splendid idea to rob a jewelry store and badly injure one of the sales assistants working there. Sussing out the perp out of a short line of suspects hadn't been a problem but when they had accompanied the Yarders to arrest him, things had gone a bit pear-shaped and there they were, running through dark streets and empty alleys in pursuit of a man who really didn't know when to give up and surrender.

  
If he wasn't struggling for breath, John would be grinning madly at the sheer joy of running at full speed, hot on the heels of Sherlock Holmes and a dangerous criminal. God, this was fantastic! Sherlock, having memorised every square foot of London, clearly knew exactly where they were going and just as clearly liked it, judging by the delighted laugh he gave just then. "Cul-de-sac!," he called in John's direction, turning his head to look back at him as they ran. "We've got him now."

  
Unfortunately, in his distraction, he hadn't noticed the suspect veering sideways to pause behind two large bins from where he returned armed with an old tennis racket he had clearly found in one of the skips. Sherlock's attention was rather violently drawn to that fact when said racket collided with his shoulders, missing his neck merely because he was taller than the suspect had expected.

  
A moment later, he was positively looming over the man because by then John had reached them and tackled him to the ground. If the man's face got pressed rather uncomfortably against the netting of the racket, it was by pure accident.

  
"You all right?," John gasped, giving Sherlock a quick once-over while still kneeling on the suspect's back and holding his arms in a decidedly uncomfortable position.

  
"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, but he couldn't quite hide his grimace of pain as he straightened and turned to watch Lestrade and some of his underlings arrive. "You took your time."

  
"Had to deal with the bastard's girlfriend first," Lestrade apologised, still wheezing. "She didn't like that we were there to arrest her steady source of income. I see you got him. Good job the two of you."

  
John nodded at him. "No problem. Now if you lads could take over, that would be splendid. I need to get this one-" He nodded at Sherlock "- to A&E. Don't bother protesting, Sherlock, that was a forceful blow and I want to make sure you don't have any broken bones or fractures."

  
"It's just a bit bruised, I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered anyway, rolling his eyes. "There's no need for-"

  
"We're going," John interrupted decisively. "As I said - don't bother arguing. We can either do this the easy way by getting a cab and driving there ourselves, or I will ask Lestrade here to call an ambulance."

  
The threat worked perfectly and within minutes they were ensconed in the back of a cab, Sherlock sullen and John smiling smugly.

  
A&E was a bustle of people despite (or perhaps because of) the lateness of the hour and they had to wait for a while before someone came to take a look at Sherlock's back and listen to John's explanation of what had happened. In short order and in complete disregard of Sherlock's angry protests, an x-ray was ordered and he was wheeled away, giving John the evil eye until the door swung closed behind him and cut off his line of sight.

  
Another half hour later Sherlock was back, still angry about having had to take off his coat, jacket and shirt for a - in his words - "preposterous, invasive, and grossly overdramatic" examination.

  
"Stop complaining and deduce that woman over there for me," John told him, jerking his chin in the direction of a middle-aged woman in the waiting area.

  
"Why would I bother telling you about her affair with the head nurse on staff?," Sherlock sniffed.

  
John grinned. "No idea. Ah, there's the doctor."

  
A middle-aged man in a white coat and glasses had pushed open the doors leading towards Radiology. He was holding x-rays and looking rather harassed - no great surprise in someone who was working a late shift at the hospital and had had the misfortune of meeting an annoyed Sherlock Holmes.

  
"Mr Holmes?"

  
"Yes."

  
"Dr Asters," the man said, nodding at the two of them instead of shaking hands. Not that Sherlock would have given him his anyway. "I just took a look at your x-rays."

  
"I should hope so," Sherlock said before the doctor could continue. "That's what John dragged me here for, after all."

  
"Sherlock!," John hissed, then turned to Dr Asters. "I apologise for my friend. He isn't in the best of moods right now."

  
The doctor chuckled. "Having a badly bruised back can do that to you," he said, as if such a thing happened to him all the time. "And I'm happy to tell you that beyond the bruising there was no further harm caused. However ... "

  
He paused and cleared his throat. "Mr Holmes, have you been x-rayed before?"

  
"Of course," Sherlock said coolly.

  
"And are you aware you have two sets of shoulder blades?"

  
John gaped. "Excuse me?"

  
The doctor shrugged. "I couldn't believe it myself, that's why I came over to confirm. I have never seen anything like it."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm perfectly aware of that fact, yes. It is a genetic abnormality that appears to run in the family. My brother shows the same skeletal deformation."

  
"Incredible," the doctor breathed.

  
John was still busy trying to process this newest piece of information. It probably shouldn't have surprised him. Living with Sherlock had quickly cured him of being surprised by many otherwise unbelievable things. "Can I see?"

  
"Go ahead," Sherlock said, waving at Dr Asters to show him the x-rays.

  
John took them gingerly, then forgot all about being careful and simply stared. There was indeed a second set of shoulder blades, clearly visible in the x-ray. They were slightly smaller than and located two inches beneath Sherlock's normal shoulder blades, but appeared to be otherwise unconnected to his body. His ribcage was reshaped, the ribs dented inwards to make room for the additional bones.

  
"Um ... wow," he said. "I have never even heard of such a thing before."

  
"Neither has any other doctor my brother and I have ever had occasion to converse with on the subject," Sherlock said, rising from his chair and pulling his coat back on with a slight wince. "Is that all?"

  
"Uh, yes," Dr Asters said, clearly unsure of how to proceed. "I recommend you apply some-"

  
"Yes, yes, John will take care of that," Sherlock interrupted him. "He's a doctor too and quite capable of looking after some bruises, thank you."

  
"I'll just take the compliment and ignore the way you wrapped it, thank you," John said cheerfully, handing the x-rays back to the surprised doctor. "Have a good evening, Dr Asters. I'm afraid if I don't get this one home now, he'll become truly unbearable."

  
They left the hospital in silence and John waited until they were sitting in a cab on the way home before asking: "Why did you never say anything?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "It didn't seem relevant."

  
"Not relev- Sherlock, you've got an extra set of shoulder blades! How would that not be relevant to a doctor?! How am I supposed to patch you up properly when you've got bones I don't even know about?"

  
"You know about them now, don't you? And I highly doubt you will have to 'patch me up' all that often, certainly not in this specific place. Do stop making a fuss."

  
John did, but mostly because there was nothing he could say that wouldn't be incredibly redundant. "Fine. But next time tell me about stuff like this in advance, will you?"

  
"Why?"

  
He shrugged. "I'd feel better knowing, is all. And it doesn't hurt to share things like that. Builds trust and all."

  
Sherlock gave a derisive snort and they dropped the topic.

  
After that night, Sherlock didn't mention his genetic defect again and John soon accepted the information as just another thing to add to his list of weird things about his flatmate. Two days later they were chasing a murderer through a wharft and it was business as usual again.

  
*****

 

John waited impatiently for the kettle to brew, stealing glances at Sherlock every couple of seconds and tapping his fingers on the kitchen counter. The great detective was sitting in his leather armchair, still wearing his pajama trousers and t-shirt beneath his blue silk bathrobe, his bare feet drawn up onto the cushion, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees. He had not moved for well over an hour.

  
Such a state of motionlessness was certainly not uncommon, but John had noticed a deep sadness hidden beneath the faraway look in his friend's eyes. It had become more and more obvious ever since the day he had come home to find Sherlock writhing on the sofa in his sleep, whimpering as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as if blinded.

  
John had been mildly concerned then but had attributed Sherlock's evasive behaviour to the lack of sleep and had assumed the nightmare had disturbed him more than he had wanted to admit. Now, he wasn't so sure. Sherlock had seemed rather withdrawn ever since, but it was only when he got that sad, faraway look in his eyes that John started to worry in earnest. This was not like his flatmate.

  
They had solved quite a lot of cases since that first, heady night with the cabbie. Sherlock had never once been as affected by any of the gruesome crimes as he appeared by this one dream.

  
The kettle whistled and John switched it off, filling two mugs with water and adding tea bags. As he added sugar to Sherlock's, he snuck another look at the man. He hadn't moved.

  
John thought he knew quite a lot about his flatmate by now, mysterious as the man was. He tried to think of anything a man like Sherlock Holmes might be afraid of or disturbed by, but could not come up with anything. What disturbed a man who habitually was elbows-deep in another person's corpse? What scared a man who had chosen a career path that led him to deadly confrontations with murderers all the bloody time?

  
John had never once seen him afraid in all the months they had lived together. Whatever the criminals of London's underbelly had thrown at them, Sherlock had always faced it head-on with scarcely a blink. He jumped head-first into danger with no thought at all to his personal safety.

  
This was different, though, and John instinctively knew that there was nothing he could do to help his friend. Even if he had dared to ask and Sherlock didn't look so determined to keep silent, he was reasonably sure that whatever plagued the detective, it was nothing John could do anything about. If it was, he thought Sherlock may have actually simply asked him to do it, the way he asked him to hand him his phone or laptop or the severed feet from the bottom shelf in the fridge.

  
Maybe thinking like that was the coward's way out, but John did not dare much more than give Sherlock his tea and gently say: "You do know I'll listen if you want to talk about it, right?"

  
Sherlock blinked, slowly coming back to reality. "Of course, John." He accepted the tea with both hands. "Thank you."

  
It was said quietly and might have referred to the tea but John knew a roundabout thanks when he got it - he frequently used the same technique.

  
The tea and John's company seemed to help, though, and Sherlock shook off his strange mood quickly enough, returning to his usual enigmatic persona. He spent an hour shouting at a reality show on the telly, then stalked into the kitchen to check on his mould experiment. At least that was what he claimed it was and John had decided never to ask too many questions about Sherlock's experiments in the very week he had moved in. Some things were best left unknown.

  
He kept sneaking glances at his flatmate for the rest of the evening, but Sherlock seemed back to his normal self and John allowed himself to relax. Life at 221b Baker Street continued as normal - or as close to normal as possible when one of the flat's inhabitants was examining the colony of fungi he was cultivating under the kitchen sink.

  
*****

 

Although he never openly said so, Sherlock misliked the idea of John getting a job. Regularly scheduled working hours meant time spent away from him and also resulted in his lacking an assistant for the Work. It was terribly inconvenient and Sherlock did not see why John was so fixated on finding work at some mediocre clinic anyway. Of course his presence would drastically raise said clinic's standard but Sherlock did not feel inclined to share his doctor with a larger part of London's population. Or any part, come to that.

  
It wasn't like they needed the money, he thought. He could make plenty of money by charging his clients if he so desired. He thought he might do that. He could develop a graduation of prices depending on how interesting the cases were and charge more for the boring ones. If money was an issue, it could be resolved easily enough. He thought he should mention that to John.

  
But then John came home and announced he had a job, right in the middle of a very promising case involving Chinese symbols (wonderful!) and Sebastian Wilkes (urgh). Sherlock had met many people over the course of his existence but few disgusted him the way Wilkes did. Buddying up to him when he needed something and dropping him like a hot potato the moment the issue was resolved - it had been the same back at university.

  
But Sebastian was not the problem here. John was. Or rather: his job. Really, what had he been thinking, chaining himself to a regular schedule and neatly paid hours? His words still rang through Sherlock's head. _"She's nice."_ Of course there'd be a woman involved. Of course.

  
He cursed himself for not having seen it immediately, but a closer look at John told him all he needed to know. Wasn't sleeping with the boss frowned at in this century's culture? Maybe John didn't care about that. _It's all fine._

  
Well, Sherlock certainly did not think it was fine. Quite the contrary. But then again, John clearly did not view their relationship in quite the same way as he did.

  
_"My friend." - "Colleague."_

  
Yet another thing John had said that still rang through his head, clear as a bell. Why had he done that? Did he really think so? Was that what Sherlock was to him? Colleague, flatmate? What about the cabbie he had shot for him? Did people do that for their colleagues? Was John that desperate to keep a flatmate to share the rent? None of it seemed a valid enough reason, not when compared to John's impeccable character. _Strong moral principles_. His own words, his deduction.

  
He shook the thought from his head. No. There had been something in the way John had eyed Sebastian, disgust and mistrust warring for dominance, that made him think - hope - that John had downplayed his own role in Sherlock's life to mislead the banker. Sherlock liked that idea far more than the other option - that John didn't care about him very much at all.

  
He wasn't stupid, he knew he was getting more entangled by the day. Only last month he had given serious thought to daring to look, after all! That was not a decision made lightly - one he had chosen not to make then. He would wait, gather more evidence, try to find out how deep the invisible connection between them went. And while he was busy doing that, he would crack this blasted code, figure out the meaning of the warning and the motive for these crimes. What was the killer looking for?

  
By the time he got word of the Chinese Circus (a bit too much of a coincidence) as he drew the noose tighter around the smuggling ring, John had returned from his first day at work with a smug look on his face that promised Sherlock wasn't going to like what he was about to say.

  
"We're going out tonight," he told John as he walked in through the door.

  
"Can't. I've got a date."

  
Aaand there it was.

  
Sherlock raised his head and looked at him, baffled. "A date?"

  
John looked back, blandly. "It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

  
He frowned. "That's what I was suggesting." Blowing a Chinese smuggling ring was the very epitome of fun, as far as he was concerned. And with the added bonus of a circus, too! Sherlock loved a good show as much as the next man.

  
But John didn't share his opinion. "No. No it wasn't. At least I hope it wasn't."

  
It took him a moment to make the connection - that John had concluded Sherlock meant their little adventure to be a date - and the rejection stung all the more for that. He fought to hide his flinch and instead concocted a plan on the fly to get John where he wanted him. A few well-phrased sentences were all it took to convince John that taking Sarah out on a date to the circus would be much more impressive than the boring dinner-and-a-movie routine he had intended.

  
The moment John went to the bathroom to shower and get dressed for his date, Sherlock called the venue and ordered a third ticket for himself. This was getting better by the moment - now he had a legitimate reason to go see the circus for himself _and_ the added opportunity of having a look at this Sarah person. He tried not to think about why John's love life held such an interest for him and instead forced his mind to focus on the case at hand.

  
*****

  
In the end, the visit to the circus did not quite go as planned. Though Sherlock got first-hand proof that it did indeed only serve as a facade for the smuggling ring, he got into a completely unplanned fight with one of the members of the Black Lotus gang which disrupted the entire show. And by the time the police arrived, the smugglers had already fled.

  
To make matters worse, John insisted on taking Sarah along when they returned to Baker Street, a decision Sherlock couldn't understand. There was nothing there for her to do and no time for John to get 'a leg over' as people so crudely phrased it. Sherlock shuddered at the very thought of such a thing happening while he was nearby. Or at any time, really.

  
Frowning, he sat down at his desk and continued to pour over the notes on the case, trying to figure out the code and studiously ignoring John trying to conjure up dinner from the meagre contents of their fridge. If only he knew the book they used ...

  
Distantly, he became aware of Sarah looking over his shoulder, studying the symbols. What a rude thing to do! And it wasn't like she could possibly grasp any of it, either.

  
"This is some kind of code, yes?," she asked curiously, peering at the papers.

  
He had no choice but to confirm her assumption.

  
"And each symbol is a number that corresponds with a word?"

  
Sherlock blinked. "Yes. How-?"

  
"Some of them have already been translated, see?" She pointed at one of the pages and Sherlock sucked in a breath as he saw that she was right. Soo-Linh must have started translating them before her death. But if that was the case, then she must have had the book with her at the time ...

  
He jumped up and left the flat, racing down the stairs and out onto the street. In his haste to get a taxi, he slammed into a couple of German tourists, knocking the London A to Z from the man's hand. He apologised as he hurried on, then stopped short as he noticed two Chinese women consulting the same guide book. A book everyone would own ... _of course_!

  
He ran after the German couple, all but tearing the guide from the man's hands without bothering to explain the urgency of the situation - they wouldn't grasp it anyway. His own hands shaking with excitement, he leaved through the pages, recalling the numbers and searching for the words in question.

  
The book still in hand, he ran back. There was no need to get to Scotland Yard for Soo-Linh's possessions now, he had the book right here. John would be just as excited as he was, he knew.

  
He started calling for his friend while he was still on the stairs, then continued as he entered the flat.

  
"John?"

  
The flat was silent and empty, neither John nor Sarah there. Had they snuck away to her place, to continue their abominable date? He turned on the spot, looking for a clue ... and froze.

  
The yellow spray paint on the windows was impossible to miss, as was the warning it spelled out.

  
Death.

  
For a moment that felt like an eternity, Sherlock was paralysed by fear. He thought of the two dead smugglers, of Soo-Linh killed at the museum, and imagined John in their place.

  
_'No.'_

  
He would not let it happen, he would find them, find John (and even the woman, Sandra? Sarah) and he just knew the clue was in the messages they had uncovered at the train tracks.

  
Taking the book in hand again, he re-read the message he had deciphered, committing the address to memory. Time to get that cab, after all.

  
When he arrived in the tunnel the smugglers had chosen as their hideout and had listened to the leader prattle on about how she had gotten Sherlock Holmes in her grasp and would have killed him if she had actually wanted to, he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

  
This foolish woman had managed to confuse him and John, for god's sake! Granted, the evidence was damning, the credit card and check and circus tickets in his name ... but really, he and John were as different as night and day! How anyone could possibly confuse kind, gentle, fierce John Watson with _him_ \- genius, misanthrope, _Fallen_ \- was a riddle he would never crack and didn't care to.

  
Now was not the time to ponder such foolishness, however. There was an arrow pointed at John's date and a gun aimed at the man himself and Sherlock would not stand for that.

  
So he raised his voice from the dark, confirming John's explanation and beating one of the guards unconscious as an afterthought - the man was a moron to come looking for him all alone, plainly visible.

  
"What would you descibe me as, John? Mysterious? Enigmatic?"

  
"Late?" John suggested, sounding caught between exasperation and relief. _'My brave blogger.'_

  
Sherlock had no time for a verbal response, too busy drawing the smugglers' attention and talking the leader out of firing her gun by rattling off the simple maths of the situation. "You might hit anyone, even yourself."

  
That made her reconsider, thankfully, and that moment of hesitation was all Sherlock needed.

  
By the time the whole scruffle was over and done with, one of the smugglers lay dead, two more unconscious, and the leader had fled. But John and his date were safe and alive, though one of them was having a panic attack. Not John, of course. Brave John, who smiled and promised Sarah that the next date would be better.

  
Sherlock thought this one had been quite wonderful, all things considered.

  
*****

  
Figuring out the motive for the murders had been easy enough and, once John was out of danger, Sherlock had no trouble finding the missing jade pin all the fuss had been about. It looked surprisingly unassuming for being worth nine million pounds, he thought. The secretary's screeches and squeals of joy quite made up for that, however. So did the smile John gave him when they settled in their accustomed chairs in their sitting room later that day.

  
John looked much more relaxed, now that he had a steady source of income and a girlfriend - however long that relationship might last. After some minutes of consideration, Sherlock acknowledged that he was fine with that. His friend deserved some respite every now and then and this case had proven that even if they did split ways for a while, in the end they would be thrown back together again - even if it was at the hands of a Chinese smuggling ring.

  
And really, he had no right to mislike John's relationship - after all, it was him who had decided that the friendship they currently had was too valuable to risk for a look at his best friend's soul and the possible pain of rejection that came with it. If there was one thing experience had taught Sherlock, it was that he could not bear to stay in close proximity to someone he liked but knew wasn't meant for him. All that ever led to was misery when the other person finally found a significant other and moved on with their life.

  
_'No',_ he reaffirmed silently as John handed him his tea with two sugars and a smile. _'I will not throw this away.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! As you can see, chapter lengths may vary and I have decided to skip over some of the events of the series - we all know what happened and it gives me time to focus on the parts where I veer (slightly) off-canon. More to come on Wednesday!


	11. Part 3 - Chapter 3

** Chapter 3 **

 

_Several months later_

  
Some of the lights were on in the swimming pool but most of the interior still lay shrouded in darkness. There was no sound but the gentle sloshing of the water, the creaking of the ancient heating system and the echo of Sherlock's own footsteps. When the door fell closed behind him with a clang, the noise almost made him flinch. It tore the silence to shreds for just a moment.

  
"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock said loudly, holding up the flashdrive and taking a couple of steps forward.

  
He looked around, squinting into the darkness of the audience ranks, trying to make out places where the shadows were deeper or didn't quite seem to belong. There was nothing to see.

  
He frowned. Something was wrong.

  
If asked, Sherlock could not have put his finger on what it was, could not have explained the instinct that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He simply knew that something was wrong - something fundamental.

  
A door off to the side opened and someone stepped into the room. Sherlock turned at the sound and froze, the flashdrive still raised in his hand.

  
"Evening."

  
_John._

  
"This is quite a turn-up, isn't it?"

  
For a moment, Sherlock simply did not comprehend what he was seeing. His entire mind balked at the very thought that John had betrayed him in such a way, that John was the one behind all of this. That John had deceived him for so long.

  
The shock was so strong he knew he failed to keep from showing it. Something in John's expression softened, the same pain reflected on his face. He moved his arms, his thick coat falling open.

  
The resulting mixture of utter relief and absolute terror almost made his knees buckle beneath his weight.

  
Relief: No, of course he had not been wrong. Of course John would never lie to him in such a way, or put that many people in danger, even going so far as to kill over a dozen of them.

  
Terror: There was a bomb strapped to John. _A bomb_. On _John_. Sherlock stared at the massive amount of semtex, thinking that even one single gramm would be too much, wondering how such a vile thing could exist in the same universe as John Watson. If this was the way of the Lord, God certainly had a very strange sense of humour.

  
Staring at the explosives, Sherlock thought of twelve people who had died in the so-called 'gas leak explosion', half of the building torn to pieces. His brilliant mind suddenly became a curse as it saw fit to inform him just how much damage all this semtex could do to John Watson's body if it were to blow up right now. He shuddered.

  
_'At least now I know why this felt so wrong'_ he thought, but the knowledge gave him little comfort.

  
He barely heard what else John was made to say, but some words still penetrated his consciousness.

  
"I could stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

  
John's voice broke at the last word and Sherlock wanted to run to him, to tear the explosives off with his bare hands and kill whoever had put them there. The reaction was both visceral and unexpected but he didn't have time to think about it now.

  
John had never been supposed to be in danger. It had only been a game, just a game between Sherlock and Moriarty. The Great Game.

  
To drag John into it meant Moriarty had broken some unspoken rule, and Sherlock knew in that moment that he was going to make the man bleed for that alone, if nothing else.

  
When the man himself finally appeared, he was ... not what Sherlock had expected.

  
Jim from IT indeed. A master of disguise. The way he talked and acted was deeply unsettling, however, and Sherlock could not help the dangerous thought that crept up on him. _'Demon?'_

  
He expanded his sight, opened his eyes to the other dimensions he usually kept hidden so as not to see all the evidence of the world he no longer belonged to. But no matter which dimension he scanned - Moriarty was just a man. A brilliant, murderous, utterly deranged human individual with no conscience to speak of.

  
Well, it was no hardship to figure out where he was going to end up. Or rather, down, as was the case. Sherlock thought he would gladly help him along to get there that much faster. A well-placed bullet in his brain and the whole thing would be over and done with ...

  
... if only it wasn't for the snipers.

  
If it had been only Moriarty, Sherlock would have killed him without batting an eye, but the laser pointer aimed at the bomb on John's chest changed the entire playing field.

  
And suddenly, when Jim had passed him as if he was no more than a doorstop, John moved.

  
"Sherlock, run!"

  
He didn't, too shocked by all the implications behind John's words to so much as take a step backwards. This was not what he had imagined John would do. John, brave, precious John, who continued to surprise him at every turn. And he wasn't the only one.

  
Moriarty certainly hadn't expected to end up with an arm around his neck and a man strapped to a bomb clinging to his back. The look on his face suggested he did not relish the experience. Sherlock decided to put him in a bomb vest himself if he ever got the chance. Or maybe not. Deranged as he was, Moriarty would probably run into the first large group of people he saw and blow himself up, laughing madly all the way.

  
"Ohhhh niiiiice," the man drawled, clearly appreciating this sudden turn of events, even though he did not like his own situation. "But you have rather shown your hand, Doctor Watson."

  
Sherlock didn't need to look down to see the red dots dancing on his chest. The sudden fear on John's face was more than enough to confirm his suspicions.

  
_'And here we are again'_ he thought. Maybe he should risk it, give Moriarty's snipers a reason to pull the trigger - just to see if it was possible for him to die at all.

  
But no, the risk was too great. If he _did_ die, that would leave John here with Moriarty, half a dozen snipers and a bomb strapped to his chest. Or, even worse, one of the bullets might hit the bomb and cause it to go off. No. He would not risk John's life just to test a longstanding theory of his. There had to be another way. And anyway, it was too late now. John had already let go, raising his hands in surrender to show that he was not going to try again.

  
The safest course of action was to keep Moriarty talking - clearly the man liked the sound of his own voice, prattling on and on without ever really saying anything.

  
Except ... "Now you're in my way."

  
Oh no. Dull. "Oh, let me guess - you're going to kill me."

  
"Kill you?" Moriarty looked surprised. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, one day. But not now."

  
His expression turned feral. "I will _burn_ you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

  
It would have been more impressive if he hadn't almost choked on the word 'heart'. Oh well, that was one problem Sherlock could easily solve for him.

  
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," he said, adjusting his grip on the gun he was aiming at Moriarty's head. His finger itched to pull the trigger.

  
"Oh, we both know that's not quite true," the consulting criminal told him, his eyes flicking to John for just a moment.

  
Sherlock didn't allow himself to react, even as his mind raced a mile a minute. If Moriarty knew - or even suspected - that he cared about John, _how much_ he cared about John, he would exploit that knowledge as much as possible. Whatever the outcome of this meeting - Moriarty had to die. And sooner rather than later.

  
And then - just as unexpectedly as he had come - Moriarty turned to leave, thanking him for the nice chat and simply walking away.

  
Sherlock couldn't help but call after him. "Catch. You. Later."

  
"No you won't." He basically sang the words as he swaggered out the way John had entered earlier.

  
He spent a second or two making sure the man was really gone, keeping his eyes fixed on the door, then he turned and all but raced to John, falling to his knees in front of him.

  
"All right? Are you _all right_?"

  
The words came out more forcefully than he'd meant them to, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he had tried, too busy focusing on his shaking fingers fumbling with the wires and clasps. Finally, they gave way beneath his assault and he stood, ripping the thick coat and bomb off John's body. He flung them aside, making sure they skittered across the floor to the other end of the pool, far away from him and John.

  
John, who was breathing heavily and now shaking from head to toe, a delayed fear reaction as the adrenalin started to leave his system, leaving him to struggle with the shock of all that had happened in the past couple of minutes.

  
Sherlock left him to crouch with his back against one of the cubicles, while he himself paced up and down, finally allowing himself to process what had just happened.

  
John had offered to die for him.

  
This man, this ordinary, normal, completely unremarkable human man, had told him to run even as he lunged at the most dangerous criminal Sherlock had ever encountered, paying no heed to a bomb and several snipers.

  
No one had ever done that. In all the time he had spent on Earth, not a single person had ever offered to do what John just had, with no personal gain and no ulterior motive whatsoever. For no other reason than honest sentiment.

  
"This ... uh... this thing you ... um ... offered to do," Sherlock started, desperately trying to get a grip on his annoying emotions so he could speak. "That was, um, good ..."

  
_'Gee, try to sound a bit less enthusiastic, why don't you? Sociopath indeed, Sherlock.'_ Sometimes he really hated how his self-imposed rules on sentiment left him emotionally stunted. If that was indeed the reason for his current inability to articulate his actual meaning.

  
"I'm glad no one saw that," John gasped, wheezing as he fought to control his breathing.

  
"Huh?" Sherlock paused, staring in confusion. John had just done the most remarkable, heroic thing in remembered history (well, remembered by Sherlock) and didn't want anyone to see?

  
"You, tearing my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool," John elaborated. "People might talk."

  
For one insane moment, Sherlock wanted to throw back his head and laugh uproarously. Perfect, incredible, amazing, always surprising John. "People do little else," he said, unable to keep the ridiculous smile off his face.

  
It was that moment, mere seconds before Moriarty returned to continue their game and raise the stakes, that Sherlock realised that all his defenses had somehow failed to keep John away. While he had been busy locking the doors, John had walked through the walls as if they didn't even exist and now there he was, settling nicely into the very core of Sherlock's being, as if he belonged there. And there was no way to get him out.

  
It was exhilarating. It was wonderful.

  
It was the scariest thing Sherlock had ever experienced.

  
It was also something he could not presently pay any attention to because just then the consulting criminal _did_ return. "Sorry boys! I'm sooooo changeable!"

  
He didn't seem sorry at all. "I can't let you continue. I just can't. I would try to explain but ... everything I was going to say has already crossed your mind."

  
Sherlock looked at him, standing less than a metre away from the discarded bomb vest, calculated his and John's own proximity to the explosives against the likely strength of the blast, shared one quick look with John - and raised his gun. "And I think my answer has crossed yours."

  
Slowly, he lowered the barrel, changing his aim from Moriarty himself to the bomb at his feet.

  
*****

  
A couple of hours later, they sat and caught their breaths in their usual armchairs in Baker Street, still not quite believing that they had gotten out of there alive and in one piece - or how they had managed that.

  
"So," John said, his voice admirably steady for someone who had been wearing a bomb vest only two hours ago, "that was Moriarty."

  
"Apparently so," Sherlock confirmed. He felt decidedly off-kilter. For months he had been waiting for Moriarty to show his face, to step into the light - but now he wished the man had stayed hidden, wished he had never even appeared on the scene in the first place. People had died. John had almost died several times over. And Sherlock didn't feel equipped to deal with any of the implications.

  
Moriarty was clearly dangerous, more dangerous than he had ever anticipated, made worse by his obvious mental instability. The transition from genial trickster to murderous psychopath was instantaneous and seamless. The only positive thing to be said about him was that he was not a demon. Sherlock knew how demons were created - every angel learned that quite early on - and there were not near as many as the Church would like to make people believe.

  
It was a vile thing, creating one, and sickening to think of. Sherlock fervently hoped he would never end up in a situation where-

  
"Tea?"

  
He shook his head, chasing the thoughts from his mind. "Sorry?"

  
John gave him a quizzical look. "I asked if you wanted tea."

  
"Please," Sherlock said, hiding his relief at having his train of thought derailed. "My apologies, I was lost in thought."

  
"So I noticed," John muttered. "Thinking about Moriarty?"

  
"Yes." He had, in a way. "He is much more dangerous than I expected. Less stable, too."

  
"Tell me about it." The doctor grimaced and wandered into the kitchen. "What do you reckon changed his mind?"

  
"Not a clue," Sherlock admitted, frowning. Another unanswered question. Who had stayed Moriarty's hand with a single phone call? He knew it hadn't been Mycroft - his brother had already gotten in contact as they left the pool, sounding just as unsettled as Sherlock felt.

  
Too much had happened tonight to process properly. He would need the rest of the night and probably part of tomorrow to file away all the new data and analyse everything from all angles.

  
Apart from Moriarty, the most surprising part had once again been John.

  
More precisely, John's willingness to die for him.

  
There had been no hesitation, not even fear in his expression as he tackled Moriarty. Just a quiet certainty that it was the right thing to do, that he would buy Sherlock time to get away if only he made use of the opportunity.

  
It was time to admit, at least to himself, that he had never had a friend like John. In all his life, no one had even come close. Not even Victor. No one had ever considered him important enough to kill or die for. John had already proven that he was able and willing to do both.

  
Sherlock wondered if maybe that was the sign he had been waiting for, if maybe now was the time to take a look ...

  
"Here you go, just as you like it," John said and a cup of tea appeared in front of him, held by a steady hand. There was not the faintest hint of a tremor noticeable.

  
"Thank you." He put as much infliction into the words as he could, hoping it was enough to convey he was not merely appreciative of the tea.

  
"Don't mention it."

  
John smiled at him, just as Sherlock took the first careful sip from his cup. Hot, served with two sugars and a smile. Just as he liked it.

  
He decided not to risk it. Not tonight. There had been quite enough excitement for one night.

  
_'Soon'_ , he told himself. _'I will look at his soul soon.'_

  
And maybe, for the first time in over two thousand years, he would pray and ask God for a favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos. They're very much appreciated!


	12. Part 3 - Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

"Getting the human involved was a good idea."

  
"Thank you. Moriarty will do much for our cause."

  
"He is damning himself with his actions."

  
"He is already damned. We might as well make use of him while we still can."

  
"Humans. So easy to manipulate. And so far, everything has gone according to plan."

  
"Let's hope it stays that way. Holmes and Watson must be separated, and soon."

  
"Moriarty will drive a wedge between them soon enough. Our time will come."

  
"Perhaps a wedge is not enough. Perhaps we can remove Holmes from the picture permanently."

  
"Do you believe this to be necessary?"

  
"I thought his fall would be enough, but it is becoming clear that he did not fall far enough. He can not be allowed to interfere."

  
"You have a plan?"

  
"An idea. The Fallen will not remain a problem for much longer. Moriarty will see to that for us."

  
*****

  
Sherlock wasn't quite being himself.

  
John knew because by now he was quite capable of figuring out when his best friend was putting on an act and when he was being genuine. This was neither.

  
The brilliant detective had not gone back to looking sad for some inexplicable reason. Ever since the whole thing with Moriarty, he had been in much better spirits, though taut as a bowstring. Every single case that came his way was sorted and filtered according to his own personal rating system and John was convinced that the ones that caught his attention were carefully monitored for signs of the consulting criminal's involvement.

  
No evidence in that direction ever appeared, however, and Sherlock took to spending more time in the confines of their flat, catching up on much-needed sleep (something John approved of) and not bothering to get dressed (something John at least tried to pretend he didn't approve of).

  
The sad truth was that it had always been quite difficult to ignore how stunning Sherlock looked, but it was downright impossible not to notice that obvious fact when the man insisted on wearing nothing but a sheet around the flat. John made an effort not to look, he really did, but even the way his friend wrapped the sheet around his body like a toga didn't always hide everything and the ruffled, unkempt state of his unruly curls did the rest.

  
It quickly became apparent to John that Sherlock needed a case. More to the point, _he_ needed Sherlock to have a case. Desperately. Otherwise, he might eventually cave and drag the unsuspecting detective back into his bedroom by his ridiculous sheet and teach him a thing or two about how to put the thing to good use.

  
Such fantasies were dangerous to entertain and he tried his best to nib them in the bud, not willing to risk a perfect living arrangement and the most valuable friendship he had ever had for the sake of a handful of carnal thoughts that had no place in their lives. After all, Sherlock had made his stance on such things clear from the very beginning. "Not my area" and "Married to my work" were two statements unlikely to ever leave John's mind.

  
It wasn't Sherlock's continued state of undress that made John worry about his friend, however, but rather the way the detective looked at him. There was a speculative, curious edge to his expression more often than not and John wasn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps Sherlock was trying to deduce something particularly far-fetched about him, an event from his childhood maybe. Simply asking was obviously out of the question, so John decided to get used to the idea that someday in the future, Sherlock would give voice to his deduction at a completely random and quite possibly inappropriate moment.

  
As the curious glances in his direction increased, so did most of Sherlock's more extravagant habits. John woke to sounds of the violin being played or abused at all times of the night and the experiments took on a decidedly disgusting turn. He had thought it couldn't possibly get worse than the head in the fridge, but that notion was quickly proven wrong.

  
When he was forced to skip his morning shower because Sherlock had filled the bathtub with entails during the night, he decided enough was enough.

  
"Now listen," he said, marching into the kitchen where his impossible flatmate sat peering into his microscope with a look of utter concentration that was almost certainly faked. "I don't mind the occasional collection of fingers in the fridge, you've got a special compartment for that shit, but when I take a shower, I don't want to share it with anyone's entails but my own, preferably while they're still inside my body."

  
"Not anyone's," Sherlock said curtly. "Those belonged to a professor of medicine who donated his body to science. I'm measuring how long it takes for human entails to burst if submersed in warm water as opposed to being exposed to dry air."

  
"I'm sure that's gonna come up in a case real soon," John said sarcastically. "And I don't care who the man was. I've told you before: no human bodies or parts of the same in the bathroom. The same goes for all kinds of animals. If you will recall, I made that my condition for allowing you the fungi beneath the kitchen sink."

  
That was true and he saw Sherlock's shoulders tense in guilty acknowledgment.

  
The detective was just opening his mouth to say something - probably nothing polite - when his phone beeped. He pounced on it as if he had been waiting for a message and his eyes gleamed with interest as he read the short text.

  
"The blood tests on the woman in the flower bed are done," he announced happily, jumping up from his chair and immediately losing interest in both his microscope and John's complaints about the state of their tub. "I'll be in the lab, text me if we get a client."

  
"Sherlock, stop!," John called after him as the detective was almost out the door.

  
He paused and turned around, his glare telling John of his conviction that he could have nothing to say that was even half as interesting as the test results waiting at Bart's. "What?"

  
John raised an eyebrow, trying in vain to hide his smirk. "I suggest you get dressed first, Sherlock. Molly will probably faint if you appear wearing nothing but a sheet, and the cabbie might object."

  
His friend glowered but did as he had suggested, his mutterings about people and social conventions lost as he firmly shut his bedroom door behind himself. The moment the latch clicked, John allowed his chuckles to escape. Despite his amusement, he felt a keen sense of relief. Perhaps this was the break he had been waiting for, the moment where Sherlock returned to normal.

  
*****

 

Two days after the entails had been cleared from the tub and John had insisted on disinfecting the entire bathroom before proclaiming it fit for use once more, Sherlock found himself in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, staring at the screen of his laptop and talking to John with all the patience he could muster, which wasn't much.

  
Behind him, the heavy breathing of their latest client was loud in the quiet of the flat, an unwelcome disturbance he fought to ignore as he demanded to speak to the commanding officer on the scene.

  
"There is a mute button and I'm not afraid to use it," John threatened before grudgingly handing over the laptop so Sherlock could at least free his client of any suspicion. It only took one rapid-fire speech to label the DI a moron and off-handedly diagnose his client with an untreated heart-condition. If the man had half a brain, he would seek out a doctor at the first opportunity.

  
The case itself was a severe disappointment, solved the moment he had heard all the details and John had showed him the scene via the laptop's camera. Luckily, Mrs Hudson chose that moment to show in some visitors, serious men in expensive suits and expressionless faces, demanding he get dressed and accompany them.

  
Sherlock gave them one cursory glance, garnering all the information he needed. Oh well, he hadn't been inside Buckingham Palace in a while. Maybe it was time to go and pay a visit. He knew Mycroft had tea there at least once a month, but surely by now Her Majesty must be sick of his brother's visage.

  
He smirked. "I know exactly where we're going."

  
But until he knew what the case was, he refused to get dressed. Not leaving the flat for anything below seven was one of his rules to optimise his work, breaking it was the only exception he was willing to make for the Queen without knowing the particulars of the case.

  
If the men thought his attire inappropriate, they didn't say so, too well-trained in keeping their opinions to themselves. Independent thought was one of the first things people assisting those in higher positions got discouraged from.

  
Sherlock marched out the door in his sheet, his head held high and dignity intact as he got into the waiting car. He spent the drive to the Palace scrutinising the interior of the car, trying to deduce who had been the last member of the Royal Family to make use of it. It was a draw between Prince Harry and Prince Andrew, both of whom had a habit of picking at the upholstery when they were impatient.

  
Before he could come to a final decision, the car passed one of the gates and pulled into a yard sheltered on all sides by buildings. One of the men in suits opened his door for him, making Sherlock wonder idly, and not for the first time, if people forgot how to operate door handles once they reached a certain social standing.

  
He looked around but saw no sign of John. "Where is my blogger?," he asked the door opener. "I don't work without my blogger."

  
"Dr. Watson is being brought in as we speak, sir," the man told him. "If you would please follow me."

  
Reassured and amused by the knowledge that John was being brought to Buckingham Palace to meet him, he followed the man through a door and down long halls and up two flights of stairs. As they walked, Sherlock took in his surroundings, glancing out of the windows and at the portraits on the walls. Some changes had been made since he had last been here, but the general layout of the Palace had not changed and he traced their progress on his mental map of the building, updating it as he went.

  
Considering that his last visit here had been when Queen Mum was no more than a spark in her father's eye, not much had changed. He wondered if the secret passageways were still known and used or if they had been forgotten, knowledge lost in the passing of generations of monarchs. Maybe he'd come back and investigate the place sometime in the future.

  
Before long he was being led into one of the smaller parlours and invited to take a seat on the sofa. His clothes were placed on the table in front of him, rather pointedly, but he had no intention of getting dressed. The chances of Her Majesty arriving in person were negligible, Prince Philip would find it immensely amusing, and anyone else was not important enough to warrant special treatment. They should be glad he had deigned to come at all, with no information about the case.

  
The man, most likely no more than a lowly footman, left him alone, so he could have taken the chance to walk around and inspect the room more closely but there was nothing of interest to be seen. He sat in silence, unmoving like a statue, listening to the muffled sounds coming from outside. At one point, a small dog scampered into the room, sniffing curiously at his foot and the edge of his sheet before wagging his tail and leaving through the other door. Something about the Corgi reminded Sherlock of John.

  
He held that mental picture in his mind, amused by the thought, and tried to pick out the similarities. Size, of course, would be an important factor, the short legs and compact body. Yet they were fast runners - not the fastest, of course, but certainly up for a chase. Originally, they had been bred for the hunt, and just like dachshounds they had no qualms about chasing a fox into his burrow, a place where their masters could not follow. Independent thought was required for that, as well as bravery and strength. Add the similarities in colour and it really was no wonder the dog had reminded him of John. He decided not to inform his friend of the comparison, though. He had a feeling it was one of these ghastly 'bit not good' things.

  
Moments later, footsteps approached and John himself was shown into the room, looking just as baffled as Sherlock had expected. He took one look at Sherlock in his sheet on the sofa and something in his eyes began to sparkle. Mirth, the detective thought.

  
John sat down on the other end of the sofa, looking around quizzically, as if continually reassuring himself that yes, he was indeed at Buckingham Palace. Or maybe waiting for Her Majesty to come through the door. Sherlock thought he might have liked to see the Corgi but the dog was long gone.

  
Finally, after several long seconds of companionable silence, John turned to look at him, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. Sherlock held his breath, waiting for the inevitable tirade about appropriate clothing whilst visiting this place, but when John opened his mouth, his question was not at all what he had expected.

  
"Are you wearing any pants?"

  
Wonderful, amazing, not-boring John! Sherlock basked in the happy feeling of being pleasantly surprised before answering. "No."

  
John looked at him. He looked at John. They both burst into laughter.

  
"So," John gasped, "Buckingham Palace. I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

  
Sherlock chuckled anew, making a mental note of that.

  
"Seriously, Sherlock, what are we doing here?," John asked, still sounding a bit breathless. "Are we here to see the Queen?"

  
Just then, there were soft steps muffled by the thick carpet and Mycroft came into view.

  
Sherlock wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut for anything. "Apparently, yes."

  
Mycroft had heard their conversation and rolled his eyes, not at all impressed. "Just once, can you two act like grown-ups?"

  
"We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants," John said, as if that was answer enough. "I wouldn't hold on to too much hope."

  
Not grinning was absolutely impossible. Every time John demonstrated his bravery by opposing Mycroft with words and deed, Sherlock's adoration of him only increased. He hadn't thought such a thing was possible, but perhaps he should not be surprised by John proving him wrong. He frequently did.

  
Another serious man in a suit entered the room. Sherlock wondered if they were hired according to the level of seriousness they could portray with their facial expression alone. This one was much better than the two who had come to collect him, and the fact that he was in Mycroft's company was proof enough of his high rank within the royal household.

  
"I must apologise for my brother," Mycroft said to him, clearly not at all amused by Sherlock's state of dress - or lack thereof.

  
Sherlock stood to greet the man and John followed his example. Handshakes all around and John preened at the friendly mention of his blog. Oh lord. Sherlock would never hear the end of _that_.

  
There was a short discussion about who exactly his client was that almost ended in disaster.

  
Angry with Mycroft and the royal aid for not being more forthcoming, and too stubborn to let sleeping dogs lie, Sherlock rose and made to leave the room.

  
Suddenly, there was a sharp thug and he lost hold of his sheet, the fabric falling, pooling around his legs and he barely managed to hold on to the last corner as it threatened to slip below his behind. Panic lit up his mind and he froze, waiting with bated breath for the shocked gasps and John's quiet, shaky voice, forming a hesitant question ...

  
Nothing happened.

  
"Get off my sheet," he hissed at his brother, furious with him for having risked exposure out of sheer pettiness.

  
"Or what?," Mycroft asked archly. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes that might have been an apology.

  
Sherlock set his jaw. "Or I'll just walk away."

  
And he would do that, too, without any hesitation. Not now that he knew his shields were holding and the glamour worked to conceal the two angry red scars on his back.

  
Thankfully, Mycroft knew when to take him seriously, and finally backed off, ordering him in a stern voice to finally get dressed. Sherlock was in no mood to take orders, not with the panic just ebbing from his system, and his patience was of desperately short supply.

  
"Who. Is. My. Client?"

  
"Why don't you deduce it?," Mycroft asked, back to his usual smug persona, and that settled the matter. A couple of minutes later, for the sake of the case, Sherlock was properly dressed and tea had been served. His brother had produced a file and pointed out that of course the entire case was very sensitive and needed to be handled with discretion.

  
Sherlock thought that was quite an unnecessary thing to say, particularly after the incident that had last brought him into Buckingham Palace well over a hundred years ago. He knew Mycroft still remembered that, as he did everything. No one had ever learned the particulars of that affair and it would stay that way.

  
"What do you know about Irene Adler?"

  
The name was not familiar at all. He accepted the file and started flipping through the pictures.

  
"She's a dominatrix," Mycroft informed him, as if that had somehow escaped his notice. "Don't be alarmed, it has to do with sex."

  
Sherlock gave him a blank look. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

  
Next to him, John appeared to have frozen with his tea cup inches from his lips.

  
"How would you know?," Mycroft inquired. He would pay for that comment later, and if it took him years to find a way to retaliate.

  
He went over the pictures methodically, dividing his attention between the visual data and the information Mycroft provided verbally. There was something about Irene Adler, something he could not quite put his finger on, but even in the pictures she seemed off, somehow.

  
Giving her a casual once-over, he decided she was quite beautiful for current standards. The most interesting thing was the fact that her eyes did not look vacant, as so many people's did these days. These were the eyes of a woman who was aware of her surroundings and not likely to miss details.

  
A woman being in the possession of incriminating pictures was hardly worth his time, however.

  
"Well, it seems pretty obvious," he pointed out. "Just pay her and the case will be closed."

  
That was where the case got interesting. Apparently, Ms Adler had no intention of publishing the pictures or of gaining money by threatening to do so. How very peculiar.

  
Sherlock stood, casually mentioned his conviction of having the pictures in his possession by tomorrow, and walked out, John hurrying after him with an exasperated sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an innocuous object and smiled.

  
Later, as they sat in the cab on their way back to Baker Street, he revelled in John's delighted laughter and decided that it was absolutely worth stealing an ashtray for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is up on Wednesday, as always. Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos - they never fail to make me smile!


	13. Part 3 - Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit longer - I suppose you won't mind. Thanks for all the lovely kudos and comments!

**Chapter 5**

 

She had been prepared for his coming, yet it still took considerable effort not to flinch as she walked into the room and saw him sitting on the sofa. Irene barely spared a glance for his white collar and the small wounds on his face, signs of a recent punch. He sure took his job seriously.

  
Most of her attention, however, was drawn to the presence surrounding him, a sense of wrongness that made her want to cringe. It was like looking at a starving child, like seeing a good man punished while the real criminal walked free because he had the money to buy the judge ... _wrong_.

  
And, if she looked very carefully, she could see the edges of his wounds, regardless of his clothes. Something as multidimensional as wings and the scars their removal left behind could not be hidden beneath fabric that only occupied one dimension. Humans might not see anything, but her eyes were not so easily deceived. She winced internally as she took in the half-formed scars, rustling her own wings - an instinctive move to make sure they were still there and to reassure herself of their continued presence.

  
How he bore them without any outward sign of the agony he must surely be feeling every waking moment was a miracle in her eyes. Everyone had heard rumours of how much it must hurt to have one's wings torn out, to exist with wounds on one's back that would never fully heal ...

  
Yet there was something else to him, a lack of something she had told herself to expect. There was no foul scent, nothing to suggest the loss of his wings was in any way justified by bad behaviour. The sense of wrongness increased with every moment and she had barely done more than walk into the room to confront him.

  
She tugged the white strip of paper from his collar, biting down on it with a decisive snap just as his friend (lover?) walked in. The look on his face as he took in her appearance was almost comical and she almost laughed out loud when he offered her a napkin to wear. A true gentleman. She had never seen anyone resist her quite so strongly. He didn't seem interested in her body at all. And yet he was undoubtedly, one hundred percent human. How peculiar.

  
When Dr. Watson simply sat down next to Sherlock and took the role of casual observer, she turned her attention back to the Fallen. The term seemed strange to her when applied to Sherlock Holmes, even in her own mind. Perhaps, she thought, he was not so much fallen as rather _shoved_.

  
His reason for visiting her was obvious - the photographs. Well, she had no intention of giving them to him and told him so in no uncertain terms, asking about the other case instead - the man bludgeoned to death by apparently nobody. It was a very fascinating thing in her opinion, how a man could die while nearby a car backfired, yet with no obvious relation of the two events. What had happened?

  
She wanted to make Sherlock Holmes talk, wanted to listen to his voice and his reasoning, to try and suss out his character. She wondered if he was aware of the constant thrum of attraction between himself and Doctor Watson. It was plainly visible to her, the space between the two men wavering like the air on a hot summer's day.

  
But then again, he probably didn't know - this was her area, after all, and Succubi saw the world differently than others. Where other angels and humans had to observe body language and read between the lines of what was said and omitted from speech, she saw how people were connected, their relationships spanned between them in threads of light of varying shades and strength.

  
She could see the bond these two shared, man and fallen angel, and wondered how they could be so oblivious to the strength of their mutual regard.

  
Irene rustled her wings in distress, flicking their tips forward to see the reassuring flash of scarlet from the corner of her eye. Mr Holmes did not react and she wondered how many of his abilities he had lost. Was he incapable of seeing even this much? She pitied him then. How vulnerable he must feel without the comforting weight of his wings on his back. To John Watson, she may appear nude, but she was comfortable this way. Out of the three of them, it was Sherlock Holmes who was naked.

  
*****

  
The Adler case was getting frustrating now. There was no way of getting his hands on the phone and the pictures made no appearance in the media - just as Irene had said.

  
Furthermore, John had been acting strangely ever since they had visited Irene in her home. If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have attributed his behaviour to having a gun held to his head, but John was a soldier and had arguably experienced worse things than hollow threats. So, whatever it was that had John on edge, it wasn't the threat of violence. In fact, judging by some of his pointed comments, the problem appeared to be Irene herself.

  
Sherlock couldn't understand that. There was nothing about the woman that was in any way peculiar. Well, nothing that John would know of, of course. Succubi were no rarer than other types of angels and if there was anything special about this one, it was the peculiar fact that John apparently hadn't even considered flirting with her. Sherlock would be the first to admit that he didn't have a whole lot of experience when it came to Irene's field of expertise, but even he knew that humans had a very hard time resisting her. He wondered why John seemed unaffected, but didn't know how to ask without giving anything away.

  
Thus forced into idleness, he took out his frustration on his violin.

  
Christmas had rapidly approached and he found himself playing carols and older, lesser-known melodies that hadn't graced human ears for what was probably centuries. No one noticed, which was a sad statement about humanity's musical knowledge as a whole. He didn't mind the more modern carols, though, and John appeared to like them.

  
Sherlock even indulged him in allowing Christmas decorations in the flat, although he drew the line at watching Christmas Mass on the telly and sternly informed John that the core idea of Christmas as a whole was utter rubbish. The celebrations took place in the wrong season of the year and were based on largely exaggerated folklore about a kind carpenter, for heaven's sake!

  
Still, there was something nice about the atmosphere in Baker Street. As he played and watched the snow flutter to the ground outside, he couldn't help but realise that he and John had known each other for almost a year already. It was an incredible thought and he would be the first person to agree that the time had flown by surprisingly quickly. Last year, he had been miserable in his flat in Montague Street and he knew John had been equally miserable on his sister's sofa.

  
Now, they were both here, and John had even invited guests! Granted, the guests were Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and John's girlfriend-of-the-month, but that was still preferable to previous years.

  
Looking back, he felt a pang of something like guilt for deducing Molly and her present out loud - bit not good, that. John's disappointment had been obvious and surprisingly painful to witness.

  
However, he quickly forgot all about it as soon as Irene's text message arrived.

  
_'A present, huh?'_ He plucked it from the mantelpiece, already certain of what it was. It would not do to unwrap it in front of everyone, so he went into his bedroom.

  
The sleek phone felt heavier in his hand than it had any right to and he instantly knew what it was Irene was trying to tell him.

  
He pulled out his own phone and called Mycroft. Just then, John opened the door to his room and Sherlock realised that having an audience would prevent him from being as frank with his brother as he would have been otherwise.

  
"Irene Adler will be found dead." Not quite correct, of course, because Succubi were not that easy to kill - they usually seduced anyone who tried and by the time the would-be-killer left, he or she was stupidly in love and had forgotten about their mission entirely. Mycroft would get his meaning however.

  
Somehow, Irene Adler had decided that holding on to the phone and the information on it would cause more trouble than it was worth, and so she had left it with him and disappeared. He assumed she had gone into hiding with her girlfriend, though he could not quite fathom who she was hiding from.

  
Mycroft called him back less than half an hour later.

  
They had found Irene Adler - or at least someone who looked exactly like her. Sherlock knew the role she wanted him to play in this charade. Go to the morgue, take a look at the body, identify her as Irene Adler, and effectively help her disappear.

  
He did precisely that.

  
*****

  
The car was sleek, it was black, and it was expensive. Most importantly, it wasn't one of Mycroft's.

  
John got into it anyway, apparently oblivious to that fact. Sherlock decided to make him memorise all the license plates to Mycroft's cars just as soon as he got John back. Which, of course, was the first order of business.

  
He left the flat as soon as the car had turned the corner, already on the phone with Mycroft's favourite minion, Anthea. Sometimes, having access to every security camera in the city was rather useful. Trailing a car without the driver becoming aware of it was one of those times.

  
Sherlock took a cab and followed the car at his leisure. Battersea was not the destination he would have expected, but he figured it fit into the category of places Mycroft usually preferred to use for his clandestine meetings.

  
He paid the cabbie, didn't bother waiting for the change, and followed John inside, wondering who might want to meet up with his blogger. They apparently thought John wouldn't agree to whatever it was they wanted from him, or they wouldn't have bothered pretending to be Mycroft.

  
Sherlock ran down the short list of possible suspects in his head. Moriarty wouldn't bother with the deception, simply snatching John off the street like he had done for their meeting at the pool. That only left Irene.

  
_'She's been playing dead for a week and already getting tired of it,'_ he thought, rolling his eyes. _'Not very good at subterfuge, our fabled dominatrix.'_

  
It took him a while to find the section of the building John and Irene were in, and he took up position behind a piece of machinery to listen to their conversation, hoping to gain some insight into what was going on.

  
Irene confessed to flirting at him, which was surprising. Was that what all the text messages had been about? He hadn't been paying attention, too busy trying to analyse the look on John's face every time his text alert sounded.

  
And now there was John, disbelief colouring his voice. "He's Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word!"

  
Sherlock smirked, flattered. He didn't think it was possible to outlive God, but he'd give it a try if John thought it was something he could do.

  
But Irene and John were still talking and had hit upon a very interesting topic.

  
"We're not a couple," John told her. It was true, but Sherlock still didn't like hearing it.

  
Irene's counter, on the other hand, hit a little too close to home. "Yes you are."

  
Sherlock could almost feel the annoyance radiating off of John. "If anyone out there still cares - I'm not actually gay."

  
_'I care,'_ Sherlock thought bitterly. _'And it doesn't change a thing.'_

  
Clearly, Irene was of the same opinion. "But I am," she told John. "Look at us both."

  
Sherlock blinked. John sucked in a breath ... and didn't say anything. Perhaps he wanted to, perhaps he was just trying to find the words - Sherlock never found out.

  
His phone chose that moment to chime with Irene's text alert, making her and John aware of his presence. He turned and left, as quickly and quietly as he had come, and was glad to find that neither of them followed him.

  
Sherlock needed a moment.

  
He left Battersea Power Station, found a cab, and must have given the cabbie the address to 221b Baker Street, but he had no recollection of it. All he could think of was the implication behind Irene's words. That she thought John ... was attracted ... to Sherlock. It boggled the mind. It left him incapable of rational thought because clearly that couldn't be right. Wishful thinking was one thing, but to have someone else share his delusion?

  
He was torn from his haze when he walked through the front door and alarm bells went off in his head.

  
Something was wrong.

  
*****

  
John arrived at home to find Sherlock holding an American at gunpoint and Mrs Hudson in a state of shock. This unexpected turn of events, as well as the subsequent arrival of an ambulance to pick up the only American to ever accidentally fall out of a window several times in a row, effectively ruined any chance for him to talk to Sherlock about Irene Adler or anything Sherlock might have heard them talk about.

  
The moment had passed and Sherlock was already back to his usual self.

  
It was oddly reassuring to John's mind that even the apparent resurrection of Irene Adler had not managed to shake his friend overly much. In fact, the person most shaken by recent events appeared to be himself.

  
Coming home one day to discover Irene Adler fast asleep in Sherlock's bed didn't exactly help matters.

  
Neither did watching her flirt with his friend in the most obvious way, presenting him with a puzzle to solve in the time it took her to lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek - which he did, of course. His only reaction to the kiss was to give John a look of utter confusion, a sentiment he seemed to hold on to as Irene proposed fucking him right there on the table until he begged. Twice.

  
John took Sherlock's unimpressed response as a sign that Irene had no chance of ever getting her wish.

  
Meanwhile, John himself spent a couple of miserable hours frantically attempting to shove away all thoughts of Sherlock in the position Irene had described, only without the woman herself being present. There was only so much torture he was willing to subject himself to, which was also why he had so vehemently denied her accusations concerning his feelings for Sherlock.

  
Seeing Irene press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek had been bad enough, but the way Sherlock just rattled off his deduction at the speed of light to impress her ... well. John did find it reassuring that the only person Sherlock had looked at after that deduction was him. Sometimes, John wondered if Sherlock had even noticed Irene kissing him. If so, he certainly didn't seem like he had enjoyed the experience.

  
John wanted to ask Sherlock about it, but soon afterward his friend disappeared while John was out, and by the time the detective returned, the case was apparently closed. He only ever told John the basics, about the plane full of dead people and the meaning of the code.

  
After that, what passed for normalcy returned to 221b Baker Street.

  
Sherlock did his usual weird experiments, John complained half-heartedly about them, and both avoided any mention of Irene Adler. As far as John was aware, Sherlock didn't hear from her again.

  
*****

  
_ Karachi _

  
Sherlock was covered in blood and holding a machete covered in what no jury in the world would believe to be strawberry jam.

  
As far as unpleasant situations went, this one could hardly get worse. At least that was what he thought until he heard the audible click of a gun's safety catch being released and turned around to find himself looking down the barrel at Irene Adler. She must have picked it up from one of the newly-deceased terrorists.

  
"Really?," he asked, his hand holding the machete dangling loosely at his side. "After all the trouble I went to? I don't make it a habit of hacking people to pieces, you know?"  
She shrugged. "Considering the circumstances of our last meeting, I can't say I'm entirely sure what your habits are."

  
"That's it? You're still miffed because I cracked your code? I thought that was your whole plan! Of all the codes you could have chosen, you went with a pun on my name. Hardly creative, but I suppose the satisfaction on your part would have been immense had I not figured it out in time."

  
He looked around at the blood-soaked sand. "Either way, even I do not condone having you put down for wanting to play the game, and certainly not for being such an interesting adversary although you did lose in the end."

  
Irene tilted her head a little, but didn't lower her gun. "Where does John think you are right now?"

  
It was his turn to shrug. "No idea, but I may have slipped him a little something in his tea. If the dosage was correct, he will miss the entire day and won't notice I was gone at all."

  
"You don't plan on staying a while? It's almost dinner time."

  
Sherlock made a face. "Even for a succubus you should know better."

  
He dug around in his pocket and tossed something at her. She caught it by reflex with her free hand. Her lipstick. The exact same shade she had worn on the day of their first meeting.

  
"That's a strange way of telling me no," she pointed out.

  
Sherlock grinned. "It goes well with your wings."

  
Realisation flickered across her face and he knew she hadn't been sure how many of his abilities he had retained.

  
"I wonder what shade you would have to wear to compliment yours, if you still had them," she commented idly.

  
He flinched and she grinned, pocketing the lipstick. "This was a nice gesture," she said, "but right now I need some male clothes to get out of here." She waved her gun at him.  
He looked outraged. "This is the thanks I get for saving your feathery behind?"

  
"Consider it the least you can do for denying me dinner."

  
Ten minutes later, she was walking away, leaving him behind in the sand, her scarlet wings glowing ever so slightly in the dark.

  
"You owe me a favour!" he called after her. "I intend to collect it in due course!"

  
She waved in what might have been acquiescence, and disappeared.

  
Sherlock glared after her, then stalked away in the other direction to find himself some clothes - preferably ones that weren't soaked in blood.

  
*****

  
_Two days later_

  
"Are you ever going to tell me what had you in such a snit?," John asked one evening as they spent some companionable time watching telly.

  
It was he first calm evening after two days in which Sherlock had angrily sawed away at his violin or torn through the flat like a localised hurricane, making a huge mess of their flat and shouting a lot about everything and nothing.

  
"Nope," Sherlock said shortly. "It wasn't anything important, John. Just forget about it."

  
Luckily, Sherlock discovered something new to experiment on the next day and his mood lifted considerably. He even ate lunch without complaint, something that rarely happened, and even returned his empty plate to the sink - something which absolutely never happened.

  
John was therefore understandably reluctant when Mycroft stopped by and asked him to lie about Irene Adler's fate. He wasn't even sure why Mycroft had bothered telling him about her death. Wouldn't it have been easier to just feed John the lie about the witness protection programme and let him tell Sherlock the same with utter conviction? Did Mycroft really think John was capable of lying to Sherlock? Or, even crazier, that Sherlock would not realise he was being lied to? If Irene Adler had been executed and was dead for good, surely he would find out about it sooner rather than later. John had never found out just how far Sherlock's network of informants reached, but he was quite certain that the detective would not believe the protective custody thing for one minute.

  
Yet, when confronted with the sight of his best friend sitting peacefully in the kitchen, apparently at ease with his surroundings and not troubled by anything, John's heart clenched at the thought of telling him the truth. Perhaps the comfort of the lie would indeed be better for his emotional equilibrium. After all, Sherlock hated sentiment.

  
He still stumbled over the words, even as he worked to sound encouraging about Irene's fate. If Sherlock did not believe him, he gave no sign of it. In fact, he barely looked up from his microscope, only holding out one imperious hand for Irene's phone. It was useless now, of course, and government property or not, John decided his friend deserved a keepsake if he damn well wanted one. Sherlock had never before demonstrated any kind of sentimentality tied to an object, after all.

 


	14. Part 3 - Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Sherlock had woken with a terrible ache in his back - or rather, the terrible ache had woken him. He knew that there was no actual wound to be seen by human eyes. He knew that other angels saw burned remains of his wings or open wounds. He himself could look into a mirror and see two long gashes below his shoulder blades, raw like fresh scars. Right now, he knew they would be open and bleeding.

  
He didn't know what caused these random flashes of new agony, and right now he wasn't very interested in finding out, either. Gnashing his teeth to hold back any sounds of pain, he rolled onto his stomach and frantically shoved the covers away. Any weight on the injuries would only aggravate them more, real or not, until he got a mental grip. The cool air actually helped a bit, soothing some of the agony away, but it was not nearly enough.

  
There was something that appeared to be quite helpful, but Sherlock could hardly ask John to come and massage his back - or simply lay a hand on it, as a matter of fact. That would be enough. John's casual touch, full of friendship and warmth and acceptance, was the perfect balm for such a wound. But asking him for that without arousing his curiosity was impossible and therefore not an option.

  
Biting back a groan, Sherlock forced himself into an upright position. What he needed was something to take his mind off the pain. Before Lestrade's and Mycroft's intervention, he had fallen back on cocaine. That avenue was closed to him now, and what was left were cases.

  
He was reaching for his phone and typing a demanding text message to Lestrade before he even made it out of bed. By the time he had showered and avoided John's questions about his grim expression (which he accomplished by pretending John wasn't there), the DI had replied with a summary of his current case.

  
It only took a quick skim for him to know most of what must have transpired, but there was one rather interesting aspect in the choice of a murder weapon. No blog entry material, so he wouldn't need John, but maybe he could use it as a distraction until something better came along.

  
An hour later, Sherlock was happily engaged in repeatedly stabbing a dead pig with a harpoon.

  
Not the best way to spend a Tuesday morning, and in his haste to get started he had forgotten to use protective clothes, so his suit was full of blood spatters. Oh well, it wasn't as if his cleaner wasn't used to removing all sorts of weird stains from his clothes. At one point early on, Sherlock had been forced to drag Lestrade along with him to reassure the people working there that he was in fact working _with_ the police, instead of merely _providing_ work _for_ them.

  
Explaining the same thing to every taxi driver in London was a thing of impossibility, however. None of them particularly liked getting the upholstery dirty, no matter with what, and blood ranked high on the list of things they didn't want in their cabs. Therefore, he was forced to endure a long ride on the Tube, where people at least assumed that he was a weird fan of some weird show on his way to or from a convention. After all, no actual murderer would ride on the Tube still covered in blood, right? Not that that would be the weirdest thing to ever happen on the Tube.

  
By the time he arrived at Baker Street, the pain in his back was returning with a vengeance and he was feeling a headache approaching - the Tube always did that. Too many people, too much input.

  
"Well, that was tedious," he proclaimed as he burst into the sitting room. John looked up from his paper and raised his eyebrows almost to his hairline.

  
"You went on the Tube like that?" He actually sounded surprised.

  
"None of the cabs would take me!," Sherlock snapped, still miffed about that. Before John could say anything further, he stalked off for another shower and a change of clothes.

The warm water did nothing to alleviate the agony, however, and Sherlock found himself yearning for a seven percent solution of cocaine. Anything, just to make it stop. He needed a wonderfully complex case, and soon, or he would jump out of his skin. Somehow, he doubted even John, for all his acceptance, would deal well with that.

  
Dressed in a fresh suit and shirt, with his blue dressing gown flowing from his shoulders in a desperate effort to add some weight and trick his brain into thinking his wings were still there, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and proceeded to pester John about the newspapers, desperate for a new case.

  
There was nothing.

  
A military coup in Uganda that Sherlock was sure Mycroft was involved in, a Cabinet reshuffle that Mycroft was _definitely_ involved in, and a new picture of Sherlock himself wearing the despicable hat. Clearly the world was trying everything to drive him back to the drugs.

  
Except ...

  
Well, he had almost broken the habit by now, had managed to go without for quite some time, and all because John had asked him to.

  
"John, I need some. Get me some." The words slipped out before the thought had fully formed, demanding and harsh and desperate. God, he needed something to take the edge of.

  
John didn't even bat an eye. "No."

  
"Get me some," he repeated, noticing the increasing desperation in his voice.

  
"No," John repeated, giving him a stern look. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what."

  
_'Yes but this doesn't count'_ Sherlock wanted to scream at him. _'I'm in agony, John!'_

  
But he couldn't say any of that, of course. Angrily, he leaned the harpoon against the table, before he could accidentally-on-purpose stab something with it. Maybe himself. If he did that, they would have to administer pain medication, right?

  
John, unperturbed by his frustration, continued speaking. "Anyway, you paid everyone off, remember? No one in a two-mile radius will sell you any."

  
That was also true and though it had seemed like a brilliant idea in the beginning to prevent his caving in, he now thought the whole thing was incredibly stupid.

  
He said so out loud. "Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?"

  
Not that it really mattered now. He needed cigarettes and he needed them right this moment or he was going to explode from sheer agony. And that case this morning had been boring, completely beneath him, he could feel his brain rotting in his skull, keeping pace with the pain in his back.

  
Distantly aware of Mrs Hudson approaching, he proceeded to tear the sitting room apart, looking for his secret stash. He had hidden cigarettes everywhere, how come John had found them all? Oh wait, he had told him. Right. But surely he hadn't told him about every hiding place, right? He hadn't been that stupid, or that desperate to please John.

  
When he didn't find anything, he reluctantly turned to pleading, knowing that John was incapable of refusing him anything if he struck the right approach.

  
"Please" didn't cut it this time, though, and neither did bribing him with next week's lottery numbers.

  
John ignored the former and snorted at the latter, well aware that even Sherlock had no way of predicting those.

  
"Worth a try," he said, just as Mrs Hudson came into the sitting room for some reason or other. He wasn't really paying attention.

  
Angrily, he grabbed his harpoon again, just in time for Mrs Hudson to offer a cup of tea. As if tea could fix anything! As if tea would help! He'd drink all the tea in China if that was possible.

  
"I need something stronger than tea," he informed her. "Seven percent stronger."

  
He glared out of the window for a second or two, sure that the entire world was conspiring against him. Something about Mrs Hudson nagged at his consciense and he whirled around, pointing the harpoon at her and ignoring her flinch of surprise. Yes, it was quite obvious, now that he was paying attention.

  
"You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again," he said accusingly.

  
A distant anger filled him - he knew what kind of man Chatterjee was, and Mrs Hudson deserved someone much better than him. He didn't like the idea of anyone hurting her. Best make her aware of the situation, before Chatterjee could ensnare her even more than he already had.

  
Regardless of his good intentions, Mrs Hudson seemed quite upset as she stormed out of the flat. Confused, he turned to John for an explanation, but John didn't seem very happy with him, either.

  
"What the bloody hell was all that about?," John demanded.

  
Sherlock, having jumped onto his chair and perched on the seat, started rocking back and forth, trying to shove any sensations of pain into a dark corner of his mind palace. "You don't understand."

  
"Go after her and apologise," John ordered.

  
Sherlock stared at him in surprise. "Apologise?" He had been doing her a favour, why should he apologise for that?

  
John agreed with a hum.

  
He sighed. "Oh, John, I envy you so much." More words he hadn't meant to say out loud.

  
There was a moment of hesitation but finally John just couldn't help himself. "You envy me?"

  
"Your mind," Sherlock corrected, trying to somehow salvage the situation. "It's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." He had seen that once and it hadn't been pretty. His voice grew louder in his agitation. "I need a case!"

  
"You've just solved one!," John snapped back. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!"

  
Huffing, Sherlock jumped and rearranged his legs in mid-air to land in a seated position. "That was this morning!"

  
Suddenly unable to sit still, the mental image of the exploding rocket still stuck in his mind, he started drumming his fingers and stomping his feet. "When's the next one?"

  
"Nothing on the website?," John asked.

  
Instead of replying, Sherlock got up and practically shoved his laptop at him, crossing the room towards the window. Only then did he respond, repeating the message on the screen with enough scorn to make every grouch in England proud.

  
A glow-in-the-dark rabbit, for heaven's sake! Everyone knew that such a thing as fairies didn't exist, surely this little girl had gotten that memo as well.

  
For a moment, he was tempted to call Lestrade and get him on the case just to spite him for the boring case earlier today, but John wouldn't have it. Neither that, nor Cluedo, which was just as well because that game didn't even make sense.

  
He was just preparing to launch into an epic rant on the rules when the doorbell rang.

  
He and John both froze.

  
"Single ring," John pointed out, lifting a finger as if asking Sherlock to wait.

  
"Maximum pressure just under the half second," Sherlock replied, feeling his excitement rising. Maybe all wasn't lost yet. Maybe this was the case he had been waiting for. The cigarettes were all but forgotten already, the pain in his back down to a managable level.

  
They spoke as one, as they did increasingly often: "Client!"

  
*****

 

It was indeed a client. He introduced himself as Henry Knight and had brought a DVD with a TV documentary detailing his case. It was sensational and badly researched and Sherlock got bored with it within half a minute, turning most of his attention to his client instead.

  
For a while, he wondered why the man, who clearly had more than enough money, had never thought to have his ears set back. He was just about to open his mouth and ask when the man's voice on the documentary interrupted his train of thought.

  
"It was dark, but I know what I saw. I _know_ what killed my father."

  
Interesting. Not a who, but a what. And of course a child's memory was so very reliable a source. Yes, maybe this would shape up to be worth his time.

  
Switching off the telly, Sherlock turned to his client and demanded the story from him again. The uncut version, this time. It took a while to get it all out of him, mostly because the man was looking for excuses to leave, unwilling to face his memories even after he had travelled so far to share them.

  
He ignored the part about it being Dewer's Hollow - he doubted it had any relation to the Devil, otherwise Sherlock would have heard of it before. A red-eyed furry monster was more interesting, but it might have been light reflected in a common dog's or wolf's eyes. Nothing special so far.

  
Henry noticed that Sherlock wasn't taking him seriously, which was hardly surprising - he probably spent most of his life in that state. Still, Sherlock wanted to hear the rest of the story, the part that actually mattered, and that could not be found in what had happened twenty years ago.

  
In the end, it took a stream of deductions followed by the usual explanations, and the rather demanding conclusion: "Now shut up and smoke."

  
A cigarette sounded increasingly attractive now and thankfully, Mr Knight was only too happy to oblige.

  
Getting the full story out of him was like pulling teeth - he got too hung up on unimportant details and completely ignored everything of importance, as was so often the case.

  
Finally losing his patience as Henry continued describing the Hollow in general instead of what had happened last night in particular, he demanded: "What did you see?"

  
"Footprints," the man replied. "On the exact spot where I saw my father being torn apart."

  
Clearly that last part was added for dramatic detail and Sherlock felt disappointment settling heavily in his gut.

  
"Man's or a woman's?," John asked, apparently not seeing the obvious problem here.

  
"Neither. They were-"

  
"Is that it?," Sherlock interrupted angrily. "Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?"

  
Oh god, that moron. Did he really think that after 20 years he would just happen to stumble across the footprints of his father's murderer? Hadn't it occurred to him _at all_ that he wasn't the only one traipsing merrily through Dewer's Hollow? Sherlock found himself despairing of humans in general.

  
"Yes," Henry said. "But they were-"

  
But Sherlock didn't want to know what they were. This was exceedingly disappointing. "No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr Knight. Thank you for smoking."

  
That had been the only good thing to come out of this conversation - the chance to inhale some cigarette smoke, glorious relief.

  
"No, but what about the footprints?" Apparently, Henry was reluctant to leave.

  
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, they're probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing. Off to Devon with you, have a cream tea on me."

  
This was terrible. He needed to do something before he blew up - something to keep him occupied. An experiment, maybe. One that had a high probability of blowing up. He stood, buttoned his jacket and headed towards the kitchen.

  
Behind him, Henry remained seated. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

  
Sherlock froze. _Hound_. Why that word? Why not 'dog'? Henry didn't have the Sight, he was reasonably sure of that, otherwise the man would have reacted to him the moment he set eyes on him. Could it be that he had seen something not meant for his eyes? But how did the death of his father fit into that, if the two events were in fact related?

  
Slowly, he turned and came back to the doorway to stare at his client. "Say that again."

  
"I found the footprints, they were..."

  
"No, no no, your exact words," Sherlock interrupted his stammering. "Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them." Maybe he had hallucinated them in his desperation for something to do.

  
Henry hesitated, but then slowly repeated himself. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic ... hound."

  
Definitely not a hallucination.

  
Sherlock raised his head. "I'll take the case."

  
But before he agreed to come down to Dartmoor, he made John give him his cigarettes back, just to spite him.

  
*****

 

They left soon afterward and arrived in Dartmoor in the afternoon, with just enough time to drive around the area for a while before they had to get to their inn.

  
Sherlock discovered a group of large rocks that would make a perfect viewpoint to take in the surrounding land and cursed his lack of wings all over again as he scrambled up the rough stone.

  
John remained on the ground below, holding a map and looking around as he tried to orient himself.

  
"There's Baskerville," he finally called to Sherlock, pointing ahead at a large array of buildings in the distance.

  
He turned and pointed in the other direction and Sherlock turned with him. "That's Grimpen Village."

  
They had called ahead for rooms there before they had left. Sherlock committed its location to memory.

  
John turned and looked back in the direction of Baskerville, consulting his map again and nodding toward the wooded area to the left of the complex. "So that must be ... yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow."

  
Sherlock followed his gaze and took in the area between the buildings and the Hollow. It was suspiciously void of trees. "What's that?"

  
"Hmm?," John asked, before raising his binoculars to his eyes. "Minefield? Technically, Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."

  
"Clearly," Sherlock agreed. If anyone knew anything about army bases, it was John Watson. And wasn't it lucky that Sherlock had brought him along? A former soldier and a doctor, he was practically made for exactly this sort of case. Sherlock was actually glad their client had chosen to mention the hound. He might have missed out on the chance to see John act the part of a soldier otherwise.

  
He climbed down the rock, wishing he could simply spread his wings and jump, secure in the knowledge that his landing would be softened. But since he wanted to avoid broken bones, he was forced to descent like a normal human being. Also, John might be used to a lot of weird things from him, but even he would ask questions if Sherlock suddenly took to the air.

  
Shoving the thought aside, he led John back to the car and drove them into Grimpen Village, where they pulled into the car park of the Cross Keys inn. A tour guide was talking to a group of tourists, doing his best to somehow keep their attention on him and his business concept. The large sign with the drawing of a wolf-like beast and the words "BEWARE OF THE HOUND!!" was hardly subtle.

  
Sherlock barely gave him a glance as they walked past him, listening with half an ear to the young man's words. "Don't be strangers, and remember ... stay away from the moor at night if you value your lives!"

  
Personally, Sherlock thought they better stay away from the minefield, but moors could be dangerous enough if you didn't know what you were walking into - which, admittedly, tourists rarely did. Sherlock had very early in his life learned that 'tourist' was just another word for idiot.

  
Rolling his eyes, he popped the collar of his coat. John gave him a pointed look. What was that about? The coat?

  
"I'm cold," he said, knowing even as he spoke that John didn't believe a word.

  
With a spark of amusement, he watched as the tour guide put on a shaggy wolf's-head mask and proceeded to scare a nearby tourist couple. The woman shrieked far louder than necessary.

  
Sherlock decided to hang back and let John deal with the tedious process of getting their room keys, choosing instead to prowl the pub, searching for anything of interest.

  
As he did so, he tried to stay within hearing range of John and the manager, just in case anything of interest was mentioned during the conversation.

  
The first thing he heard, however, had absolutely nothing to do with the case.

  
"Eh, sorry we couldn't do a double room for you boys," the manager said apologetically. Sherlock gave him a quick glance - gay, in a long-term relationship with the cook, obvious - as he waited for John's inevitable response. Always the same, after all.

  
"That's fine. We-we're not ..."

  
And then John trailed off.

  
In his surprise, Sherlock almost stopped dead in his tracks. Why had John stopped talking? Was he simply tired of repeating the same old line over and over? Was there something more to it? Had he maybe changed his mind? His heart did a stupid little something in his chest that was completely unacceptable.

  
Trying to distract himself from the potential minefield of that topic, he looked around the room and discovered an abandoned newspaper on one of the tables. Stalking over, he studied it for a while in hopes of finding something that might be related to the case. Nothing, of course. The universe was rarely so lazy, after all.

  
Annoyed with himself as well as the paper, he walked away from the table again, then caught sight of the young tour guide, now alone and without his mask, and decided to follow him for a quick chat.

  
He snatched a half-finished beer off an empty table in an effort to blend in with the clientele and approached the young man who was just finishing a phone call. His usual approach of trying to weasel out the truth by making the other person contradict him didn't work quite as well as he had hoped, but then John joined them and the mention of a bet was all it took to get the tour guide talking. Clearly he enjoyed the thought of making a posh guy lose some money to someone looking as ordinary as John Watson did.

  
The grainy photograph on the boy's phone (and really, he was barely more than a boy) did not quite convince him, though. It might have been anything or nothing. A common wolf or almost any of the larger dog breeds could be captured in that image.

  
As he expressed his doubt and stated that John had definitely lost that bet, the boy felt challenged to provide further proof and told a story of a friend of his who worked for the Ministry of Defense. Sherlock wondered if the guy still did and if so, how Mycroft had not yet had him fired. Either way, the friend had apparently been to some secret military base and seen some things.

  
"In the labs there - the really secret labs - he said he'd seen ... terrible things," the tour guide told them conspiratorially. "Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs ..." He pulled something out of his bag. "... dogs the size of horses."

  
The concrete cast was definitely that of a dog's paw print, but even Sherlock had to admit that he had never seen a dog of that size. The voice of suspicion in his mind got a little louder.

  
"Er, we did say fifty?," John asked, never one to miss an opportunity to hold Sherlock's fallibility over him.

  
Grudgingly, he got out his wallet and handed John a fifty pound note. He didn't really mind, actually, and the amount had been his own idea, so there was no reason to complain.

  
The paw print left him feeling unsettled, though, and he stood and walked away, pretending to sulk as he tried to make sense of it.

  
He didn't come to any fully formed conclusions, however, and instead opted to take John on a drive to Baskerville for the very illegal act of breaking and entering. That, and using a false ID, which got them through the gate despite John's naysaying.

  
A jeep pulled up as they walked across the compound, and a young corporal who's name badge identified him as Corporal Lyons got out and went to greet them. "What is it? Are we in trouble?"

  
Deciding that the voice of authority was required, Sherlock sternly corrected him: "Are we in trouble, _sir_."

  
"Yes, sir, sorry, sir." The man was a quick learner. And dutiful on top of that, for he still moved to block their path.

  
"You were expecting us?," Sherlock inquired.

  
"Your ID showed up straight away, Mr Holmes," the soldier replied before introducing himself - rather redundantly in Sherlock's opinion. "Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

  
"Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not."

  
"It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen."

  
And wasn't that interesting? Sherlock made a mental note to have a word with Mycroft about that.

  
To his surprise, John decided to step in and take control of the situation. "Ever heard of a spot check?"

  
And then, as if that wasn't already unexpected enough, he pulled out his own wallet and showed his ID to the corporal, using his soldier-voice to introduce himself. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

  
He didn't even have time to finish speaking before the corporal came to attention and saluted him. John crisply returned the salute and Sherlock tried very hard to pretend he hadn't felt inclined to join in Lyons' salute. This was quite an unexpected development.

  
"Sir," Lyons said. "Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you both."

  
Well, that might put a spoke in their wheel, Sherlock thought. He should've thought this through.

  
"I'm afraid we won't have time for that," John said next to him. "We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on."

  
The corporal, probably caught just as off-guard as Sherlock, hesitated.

  
And John, bless him, snapped: "That's an order, Corporal."

  
A thrill shot down Sherlock's spine and only got worse when Lyons immediately caved and said "Yes, sir."

  
He had to turn his head to make sure John wouldn't see the look on his face. Suddenly, Sherlock was almost glad that they had not got a double room. Spending an entire night in close quarters with John after he had just proven himself fully capable of being quite ... domineering ... was not something Sherlock would consider a good idea right now. Particularly since part of his mind was now happily occupied trying to come up with ways to trick John into wearing his old uniform.

  
Sadly, their investigation of Baskerville did not turn up anything else that might be of interest. The discovery of what exactly had happened to the glow-in-the-dark rabbit was hardly any consolation. The fact that it took Mycroft twenty-three minutes to react to the security breach, however, was rather amusing and made Sherlock smug with satisfaction. His brother was getting old.

  
Saved by Dr Frankland - and wasn't that suspiciously nice of him? People never were that nice until they had something to hide, Sherlock was certain - they made their way back to the jeep.

  
"So, what was all that about the rabbit?," John asked.

  
Smiling, Sherlock flipped up the collar of his coat, blinking in surprise when John abruptly stopped and turned to him. "Oh please, can we not do this this time?"

  
"Do what?" What on earth was John even talking about?

  
John gestured at him. "You being all mysterious with your ... cheekbones ... and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."

  
Sherlock opened his mouth, a dozen replies already piling up on his tongue, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say any of them out loud. Why was John suddenly bothered by his cheekbones, of all things? As far as Sherlock knew, they had always looked that way.

  
"... I don't do that," he finally managed.

  
"Yeah, you do," John retorted, sounding unjustifiably annoyed.

  
Internally shaking his head about his best friend's weird behaviour and resolutely refusing to further contemplate it, Sherlock followed John's example and got into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your kudos and comments - we're rapidly approaching the point where this story goes almost entirely AU. Hope to see you there ;-)


	15. Part 3 - Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continued thanks to Ariane DeVere, who's transcripts of the episodes on LiveJournal were an invaluable source.

**Chapter 7**

 

Henry Knight's house was huge and old and in desperate need of a paint job. John, of course, was impressed, but Sherlock couldn't care less. He had already seen too many large houses and mansions and castles to be impressed by a four-storey building. They followed Henry into the kitchen and Sherlock settled onto a stool at the central island, secretly pleased when John sat next to him. Tea and coffee were offered and Sherlock put two lumps of sugar in his as he waited for Henry to spill the beans on what he had remembered.

  
"It's-it's a couple of words. It's what I keep seeing. "Liberty" ... "Liberty" and ... "in". It's just that."

  
John wrote them down, as if remembering two words was a challenge. When Henry was busy putting away the milk, John turned to Sherlock. "Mean anything to you?"

  
It did, in fact, though he was reasonably sure it had nothing to do with the case. "Liberty in death - isn't that the expression? The only true freedom."

  
He had to agree - he had never felt freer than when he had understood that he was dead and his wings fanned out behind him, huge and strong. That first flight ... he hadn't known freedom before that moment, not really.

  
Shaking off the memory, he took a drink from his mug.

  
"What now, then?," Henry asked.

  
"Sherlock's got a plan," John told him.

  
"Yes."

  
"Right." Their client didn't sound convinced.

  
As nonchalantly as possible, Sherlock said: "We take you back out onto the moor..."

  
Henry's "okay" was hilariously nervous, but he wasn't finished yet. "... and see if anything attacks you."

  
"What?!" John demanded, surprised. Maybe he should've told him the details of his plan beforehand.

  
"That should bring things to a head," he pointed out.

  
"A-at night?," Henry stammered. "You want me to go out there at night?"

  
He hummed in agreement.

  
"That's your plan?," John asked, clearly amused. "Brilliant!"

  
"Got any better ideas?," Sherlock asked, feeling a little miffed.

  
"That's not a plan," John said, instead of answering.

  
Sherlock sighed. "Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives."

  
Really, that should be obvious, shouldn't it? Once you knew where it was, you could either build a trap and catch it or kill it on sight. Provided there was a monster, that is. He smiled widely at his client, who didn't look at all happy with the idea. Oh well, that was to be expected. People got irrationally scared of dark moors at night.

  
Regardless of Henry's misgivings, they left his house at dusk, armed with strong torches to avoid tripping over tree roots and rocks or falling down hidden slopes. It was quite a while until they reached the woods and by the time they did, night had fallen completely. It was even darker beneath the trees and the path was narrow enough to force them to walk single file. Henry led the way, not at all happy with his position as leader of their merry little group. Sherlock followed behind him and John brought up the rear.

  
They walked for quite some time until they reached the fence and warning signs announcing Baskerville's minefield up ahead. It was around that time that Sherlock noticed John had gone missing. For a moment he felt worried, but John could look after himself and if this was what Sherlock thought it was, he was in no immediate danger. With a quick backwards glance to see if he could catch sight of John, he followed Henry along the edge of the minefield.

  
The silence was getting a bit boring now and Henry's breathing suggested he was close to having a heart attack, so Sherlock decided to needle him about one of the scientists at Baskerville, hoping for some additional information. He had a feeling something was missing from the story.

  
"Met a friend of yours," he said idly.

  
"What?," Henry asked, apparently surprised by the out-of-the-blue comment.

  
Sherlock elaborated. "Doctor Frankland."

  
"Oh, right. Bob, yeah."

  
"Seems pretty concerned about you."

  
That garnered a shaky smile. "He's a worrier, bless him. He's been very kind to me since I came back."

  
"He knew your father," Sherlock said. A statement, not a question.

  
"Yeah."

  
There, that didn't fit. "But he works at Baskerville. Didn't your dad have a problem with that?"

  
Henry shrugged. "Well, mates are mates, aren't they? I mean, look at you and John."

  
"What about us?," Sherlock asked warily. The combination of 'mate' and 'John' made something in his chest simultaneously clench and flutter. Uncomfortable. Dangerous.  
Another shrug. "Well, I mean, he's a pretty straightforward bloke, and you ..."

  
He glanced back and trailed off as he saw the look on Sherlock's face. That was probably for the better. Hastily, he returned to the actual topic of conversation. "They agreed never to talk about work, Uncle Bob and my dad."

  
He stopped and turned to his left, nodding in the direction he was looking at as Sherlock stopped and gave him an inquisitive look. "Dewer's Hollow."

  
_'Finally.'_ Intrigued, Sherlock turned and looked down the steep drop into the misty dark valley below.

  
_'My, isn't that cosy.'_

  
With barely a moment of hesitation, he began to climb down into the Hollow. The ground was slippery and the angle steep and he found himself wishing for his wings for the second time that day, if only to help him keep his balance. Behind him, he could hear Henry following him down in a much more hesitant manner.

  
Once he reached the bottom, he shone his torch around, taking in the steep walls and soft ground, riddled with paw prints all over.

  
A long, anguished howl shattered the silence of the night and Henry froze halfway down the slope, his eyes widening. Sherlock whirled around, shining his torch in the direction of the sound ... and almost screamed in horror.

  
The beast was huge, with gleaming eyes and long yellow teeth. It growled, a low, dangerous sound that seemed to make the ground vibrate beneath Sherlock's feet.

  
A moment later, it was gone, and Sherlock recoiled, caught between confusion and horror as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. A moment later, Henry came scrambling to his side, a panicked "Oh my god" on constant repeat. "Did you see it?"

  
Sherlock lowered his head, trying to hide his confusion. He looked around and shook his head, then shoved Henry out of the way and hurried back up the hillside. Henry, surprised and still breathless with fear, followed him without a word.

  
They had just reached the top of the slope when John finally caught up with them.

  
"Did you hear that?," he asked, unknowingly answering one of the questions circling in Sherlock's head.

  
Not bothering to reply, he stormed right past him.

  
"We saw it," Henry stammered. "We saw it."

  
"No," Sherlock told him fiercely. "I didn't see anything." _'And you certainly shouldn't have, either.'_

  
Henry came chasing after him. "What? What are you talking about?"

  
Sherlock ground his teeth together. "I didn't. See. Anything." Maybe, if he repeated it often enough, he would believe it. But right now, the important part was to do damage control and unfortunately that included making sure that neither John nor Henry believed what they had seen or heard was real.

  
Lost in thought as he tried to come up with a proper reaction, he hurried on, barely paying attention to Henry and John trailing after him.

  
Once they came within viewing distance of Henry's house, Sherlock left John to deal with their client's panic attack and went on a walk around the house. The moment the other two were out of sight, he turned sharply on his heel and hurried back towards the forest.

  
Instead of searching the Hollow itself, he focussed on the area surrounding it and felt his confusion growing with every new discovery. In the end, there was only one conclusion left.

  
He had been right about his theory ... but so had Henry. There really was a giant hound out there, one that left huge paw prints in the soft ground and howled its anguish into the night.

  
But Sherlock had not seen that dog on the edge of the Hollow. He had seen two.

  
And the second one was far more worrying than a stray dog roaming the woods.

  
It had always been a possibility, of course, he had known that from the moment Henry's odd use of the word "hound" had triggered his interest. For a fleeting moment, he had considered that Henry might have the Sight, but then he would have seen Sherlock for what he was, and Henry hadn't bat an eye at his appearance. Was it possible to have something like a partial Sight? He didn't think so. He certainly had never heard of it before.

  
His search of the immediate area surrounding Dewer's Hollow had at least helped him figure out why it had happened here of all places. Apparently, the name was not as exaggerated as he had first thought. Someone must have witnessed something happening here once, hundreds of years ago. Someone who undoubtedly had the Sight, otherwise that person wouldn't have seen a thing.

  
There was only one question left now: What had happened that would cause a Hell Hound to leave his post and emerge through a gate into the human world?

  
*****

 

He returned to the inn shortly afterward, not inclined to spend too much time in such close proximity to one of the many hidden Gates of Hell. It was probably nothing more than a back door, used on occasion by Hell Hounds when they went on the hunt for lost souls or - in extreme cases - an escaped demon. Either way, the appearance of one now was a bad sign and he would not have emerged if there wasn't a valid reason for it.

  
And the way it had looked at him ... Sherlock shuddered. Whatever was going on, the Hell Hound was a warning sign - and his growled message, spoken for Sherlock's ears only, made it clear that it had something to do with him. Somehow.

  
_'Danger'_ the Hound had growled, eyes blazing, before it had vanished into the dark of the night, leaving behind no trace of its ever having been there.

  
Despite the heat coming from the fireplace in front of him, Sherlock felt cold. How often did Hell Hounds deign to give a warning of approaching danger? He knew it had happened when a demon had tried to escape Hell once. The Hounds had managed to catch him and drag him back just in time, but his flight attempt had still been forceful enough to upset a volcano and soon afterward, Pompeii had been buried under a gigantic wave of lava and ash.

  
Sherlock blinked and turned his head as someone tapped his shoulder. It was the inn's manager, giving him a friendly smile. "You look like you need it," he said and handed him a glass of whiskey.

  
"I... thank you," Sherlock said, surprised, but he had already left again. He raised the glass to his face and sniffed. It was the good stuff, old and strong. _'I must look like hell if he gave me that for free.'_

  
He took a sip, enjoying the way the liquid burned its way down his throat to settle as a warm glow in his stomach. He set the glass down on the table.

  
A moment later, John entered the room and walked straight to him, taking the other armchair by the fire. "Well, he's in a pretty bad way. He's manic, totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors."

  
Sherlock, having raised his hands to his favourite thinking position, glanced at him nervously. Did John believe Henry? Worse, did he want him to believe him? He turned his gaze back to the fire, watching the flickering flames as he tried to sort out his thoughts.

  
"And there isn't, though, is there?," John continued. "Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we'd know."

  
_'So you think.'_ Sherlock had to take a deep breath and close his eyes to pretend John wasn't there to avoid saying that out loud. Even so, he noticed his breathing was decidedly unsteady as too many possible scenarios of approaching catastrophes raced through his mind.

  
Undeterred, John continued speaking. "They'd be for sale. I mean, that's how it works. Er, listen: er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse - I guess it's Morse."

  
Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to dispel a particularly disturbing scenario involving escaped demons and all Hell breaking loose - literally.

  
John was consulting his notes now and hadn't noticed. It was surprisingly unobservant of him - he was usually quick to pick up on Sherlock's moods. "Doesn't seem to make much sense," he said, his words almost enough to drown out Sherlock's gasp as his mind decided to show him various images of John dead on the ground, his empty eyes staring sightlessly at nothing.

  
"Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean ... anything ..." He trailed off, finally noticing Sherlock's state. There was a pause before he leaned back, apparently deciding on a suitable approach.

  
"So, okay, what have we got? We know there's footprints 'cause Henry found them, so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something."

  
_'Some of us heard more than the others did,'_ Sherlock thought desperately, blowing out another sharp breath as the Hound's growled "Danger" echoed in his brain.

  
"Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog," John suggested.

  
Oh dear, this was too much. He couldn't let him continue talking like that, the very idea of checking all the dogs in the county was preposterous. Didn't John realise that the dog had obviously run away?

  
"Henry's right." The words flew from his mouth before he could stop to consider them.

  
"What?"

  
Well, there was nothing for it, now. "I ... I saw it, too." _'And a Hell Hound, which was far scarier.'_

  
"What?," John repeated, shocked.

  
"I saw it too, John." There, his voice had barely shaken this time.

  
"Just ... just a minute." He sat forward. "You saw what?"

  
Even as he met John's eyes and prepared to reply, Sherlock hated himself for owning up to it, for stating the truth in a moment when it would make him sound insane. But god, he needed to tell John.

  
"A hound, out there in the Hollow." He ground his teeth together. "A gigantic hound."

  
God, it shouldn't feel so good to tell him that, to finally share at least part of his long-kept secret with John. He actually had to turn his head away, trying and failing to blink back tears of relief and anger - it shouldn't be like this. He should be able to tell John the truth.

  
John clearly didn't know what to do with his words. "Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can't just..."

  
Sherlock blew out another breath, effectively cutting his speech short. _'I can't do what, John? Tell you the truth? Bloody right, I can't. You wouldn't believe me if I did. You're having trouble believing I saw a Hound and that's without mentioning what kind of Hound we're talking of.'_

  
"Let's just stick with what we know, yes?," John suggested. "Stick to the facts."

  
_'The facts are that there is a Hell Hound out there and we are in danger and I don't know what to do and I'm scared, John. The facts are that I am Fallen and even if I wasn't I wouldn't know how to deal with this.'_

  
He turned his head to look at John, speaking in a soft voice. "Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains - however improbable - must be true."

  
John clearly didn't get it. "What does that mean?"

  
Sherlock looked away again, reaching down and picking up his whiskey. He looked down at his trembling hand and sniggered as the rush of adrenaline finally started to recede a bit.

  
"Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid." He took a sip and held up the glass again. It shook rather strongly.

  
"Sherlock?" John sounded uncertain.

  
"Always been able to keep myself distant," he muttered, taking another drink and trying to ignore the mental image of John's dead body on the ground, "... divorce myself from ... feelings. But look, you see... body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions."

  
He slammed the glass down onto the table, furious with his own reaction. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so afraid. "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

  
_John, dead on the floor, blood everywhere. John, killed by some unknown monster. Entire cities destroyed by a demon, the dead piled up in the streets with no one to bury them. Every one of them had John's face._

  
Sherlock realised he was close to hyperventilating and tried to bring himself under control, but it seemed impossible. Panic rose in his chest, higher and higher, choking him, drowning him.

  
Distantly, he became aware of John talking to him, speaking in a soft, gentle voice that was meant to soothe.

  
John, John alive and well, John talking to him. _'Focus on that. Get a grip.'_

  
He barely caught the end of John's speech. "... gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."

  
He blinked. "Worked ... up?"

  
"It was dark and scary ...," John started.

  
Sherlock couldn't help it - he barked a harsh laugh. "Me?! There's nothing wrong with me."

  
_'I'm just watching the world end, nothing to get worked up about.'_

  
He looked away, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temples and groaning lowly.

  
"Sherlock..."

  
_'Breathe. Don't panic. There is no reason to panic. You don't know what the Hound meant, there's no reason to jump to conclusions.'_

  
It wasn't helping. His breathing still didn't fall within the normal range.

  
"Sher..."

  
Suddenly, he couldn't take John's concern anymore. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!"

  
He turned to glare at him. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

  
At that point, the filter in his mind switched itself off and he realised there were other people in the room, all of whom were now staring at him. He turned his head away, looked back at John. "You want me to prove it, yes?"

  
Several deep breaths later, he felt back in control enough to attempt a longer speech. "We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. _Cherchez le chien._ Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?"

  
He hadn't actually meant to slip into French there. John was already worried enough without him switching languages fluently. Best not do that again.

  
Instead, he looked around, trying to find a suitable victim. And there they were. Perfect. A quick visual sweep told him everything he needed to know about them and he fired his deductions at John like bullets from a handgun, finally concluding with: "...so you see, _I am fine_ , in fact I've never been better, so just _Leave. Me. Alone_."

  
He glared at John, who looked shocked, as well he might.

  
"Yeah," John said, clearing his throat. "Okay. Okay."

  
He looked distressed and Sherlock turned his head away to stare into the fire, breathing heavily after his outburst and suddenly unable to look at John at all.

  
"And why would you listen to me?," John asked softly. "I'm just your friend."

  
The dead bodies wearing John's face were still fresh in his mind and his voice turned savage as he responded in the only way he knew. "I don't _have_ friends."

  
There was a second of stunned silence.

  
Then: "Naah," John said. "Wonder why?"

  
He got up and walked away, leaving Sherlock alone to stare into the flames and watch as the world burned and turned to ash.

  
*****

 

John didn't come back and after about ten minutes, Sherlock concluded that he had gone for a walk - something John often did when he was angry or upset. He winced, recalling his vicious words, but he could not bring himself to feel sorry - the panic still clogged his throat and if John was far away, he would be safe. If danger was coming for Sherlock, then it would be best for John not to be anywhere near him.

  
He stayed where he was, staring into the fire and thinking, until the door opened and a new patron entered. A short glance told him everything about the woman he needed to know and he pulled out his phone immediately, composing a text message and sending it.

>   
>  _Henry's therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub_   
>  _S_

  
The reply was short and in capital letters, angry even on the screen.

>   
>  _SO?_

  
His fingers flew across the keyboard, glad that John was still talking to him.

>   
>  _Interview her?_

  
The reply, of course, was still furious. Sherlock felt yelled at just reading it.

>   
>  _WHY SHOULD I?_

  
Well, if he required further encouragement... Sherlock looked at the woman again, taking in her general appearance. Yes, she'd do nicely. Exactly John's type. Not exactly stunning but pretty all the same, about his age, reasonably intelligent, too, judging by her profession...

  
Covertly, he snapped a picture of her and sent it to John. He didn't attach a message. Either John would take the bait or he wouldn't. And so far he had never seen him refuse a chance to flirt with a pretty woman.

  
Satisfied, Sherlock sat back and firmly ignored the way his stomach churned at the idea of John flirting with yet another lady.

  
Unwilling to witness it, he decided to retreat to his room upstairs. Perhaps it was time to get some sleep or at least to lie on a bed and let his body rest while his mind stayed alert and worked through this intriguing case. If he was lucky, he might even manage to push the Hell Hound and his warning from his mind for the rest of the case - or maybe even longer.

  
About an hour later, he heard steps out in the hallway, followed by a key scraping in a lock. Feet shuffling into the room next door, the door closing, more walking around. The definite sounds of someone getting ready for bed.

  
John was back. Alone.

  
Sherlock listened to the water running in the bathroom, separated from him by nothing but a thin wall, and didn't even try to pretend that he wasn't relieved.


	16. Part 3 - Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More thanks to Ariane DeVere and her episode transcripts on LiveJournal which helped me get the dialogue right. And further thanks to you guys, for all the kudos and comments!

**Chapter 8**

 

As was to be expected, Sherlock didn't sleep a wink for the rest of the night and got up the moment the sky turned from inky blue to a shade that suggested light blue was just a quarter of an hour away. He snuck out of his room, skipped breakfast and left the jeep parked in the lot, deciding to walk instead.

  
He walked all the way back to the huge stone boulders he and John had stopped at the day of their arrival and climbed onto one of them. By then, the sun had crept above the horizon and giving enough light for him to take in Baskerville, Dewer's Hollow, and the minefield between them. An idea had occurred to him and he was determined to give it a try.

  
Half an hour later, Sherlock Holmes knocked onto Henry Knight's door, waltzed into his house with a breezy "Good morning!" the moment the door was opened, and proceeded to steal some of the sugar from his kitchen. When he walked out again mere minutes later, he left a bewildered Henry Knight in his wake, who, in addition to being seriously confused and in an all-around bad state, was now also missing a large handful of sugar from his kitchen. Not that he noticed.

  
On his way back to the inn, feeling very satisfied with himself, Sherlock caught sight of John in the church graveyard, sitting on the steps of a war memorial, of all places. He remembered that war, of course. Amazing how people could take such a momentuous, monstrous thing, and turn it into a simple slab of stone. A date, a handful of meaningless words. _In memoriam_. Back to business.

  
He stepped through the gate and walked up to John, who was consulting his notes but tucked his notebook away when he noticed Sherlock's approach. The look on his face was not exactly welcoming. Apparently he had taken his words from last night a bit more serious than Sherlock had calculated. Stupid.

  
"Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?," he asked, deciding to start with that if only to prove that he had indeed been listening to what John had said.

  
"No," John said, stepping down from the memorial and starting to walk away. Bit not good.

  
"U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?," he asked, feeling a bit desperate now. John didn't stop and Sherlock was forced to follow along behind him. He tried the letters out again. "UMQRA."  
"Nothing." John's tone was curt.

  
Sherlock, now filled with the need to figure out what the words meant, added full stops. Maybe it was some kind of acronym. "U.M.Q..."

  
"Look, forget it. It's ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn't." John sounded exasperated.

  
Disappointment. "Sure?"

  
"Yeah."

  
Fine, another attempt then. "How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?"

  
"No." Another short answer. John was still angry, then. This gaining forgiveness thing was really rather difficult. How did people do it? Compassion?

  
"Too bad. Did you get any information?"

  
John smiled and glanced at him over his shoulder, but still didn't stop. And the smile didn't look all that amused, either. "You being funny now?"

  
Had he been? Sherlock decided to latch on to that. "Thought it might break the ice a bit."

  
"Funny doesn't suit you," John told him, rather uncharitably. "I'd stick to ice."

  
_'I did,'_ Sherlock thought. _'And look what it got me.'_

  
"John..."

  
"It's fine." Liar.

  
Oh dear, this definitely required fixing. Best start with an explanation. A roundabout one, of course. He couldn't let John know about ... anything, really. But he _did_ need him.

  
"No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before..." _'I can't imagine many people have, Fallen, Angel or not.'_

  
John sighed. "Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said."

  
Tired of talking to John's back, Sherlock caught up with him and grabbed his arm, pulling him around to face him. Just looking at John's face was a relief, regardless of the expression on it (disapproving).

  
"No, no, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

  
_'I didn't see the warning signs, I still can't see this danger the Hound warned me of. And it's scaring me.'_

  
"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster," John stated firmly.

  
"No, I can't believe that," Sherlock agreed, a bitter grin flashing across his face. But you didn't need to believe when you had irrefutable facts. "But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?" _'Why?'_

  
"Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that."

  
John turned and started to walk away again, apparently still not placated. Fine, then. Time to bring out the big guns. The ultimate truth.

  
Staying where he was, Sherlock called after him: "Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it."

  
Clearly that wasn't what John had expected to hear. He stopped and turned to stare at him.

  
Sherlock took a deep breath. "I don't have friends."

  
He bit his lip, suddenly feeling hideously uncertain and vulnerable. _'Here goes nothing.'_

  
"I've just got _one_."

  
John turned his head away as he allowed that statement to settle in his mind. Sherlock watched him with bated breath, hating himself for how insecure he felt. He was well over two thousand years old, for Heaven's sake, the approval of one human shouldn't mean that much to him. But it did. It did and it was worrying on far too many levels to even consider.

  
Finally, John nodded once. "Right."

  
There was acceptance in his voice, in his face, and Sherlock felt so relieved he thought his legs might buckle under the weight of it.

  
John turned and walked away again and Sherlock stood there, running over the conversation in his mind, trying to determine what the deciding factor had been, when suddenly something clicked in his brain.

  
_'Oh! Brilliant!'_

  
"John? John!" He started running after him, high on the feeling of getting closer to solving the case.

  
"You are amazing! You are fanastic!" He could barely stop himself from jumping with glee.

  
John kept on walking. "Yes, all right! You don't have to overdo it."

  
Unable to stop himself, Sherlock overtook him and started walking backwards as he explained. "You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."

  
"Cheers," John said, then seemed to get his meaning. "What?!"

  
Sherlock turned again and walked beside him, basking in the simplicity of that act. He pulled out his own notebook and wrote down the one thing that had been bugging him about the case all this time.

  
"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."

  
John sounded almost amused now. "Hang on - you were saying 'Sorry' a minute ago. Don't spoil it. Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?"

  
They had reached the inn by now and Sherlock stopped outside the door and turned back to John, showing him the notebook: HOUND.

  
"Yeah?," John asked, clearly not understanding.

  
He pulled the notebook back and, still speaking, added full stops. "But what if it's not a word? What if it is individual letters?"

  
He showed him the page again: H.O.U.N.D.

  
Finally, understanding dawned. "You think it's an acronym?"

  
Tucking his notebook away, Sherlock shrugged, feeling quite satisfied. There had to have been a reason for Henry saying "hound" instead of dog. This was the most likely one.

  
"Absolutely no idea, but ..." He trailed off as he caught sight of the man stepping out of the inn just then.

  
Sherlock knew that neither he nor John had called Lestrade and there was nothing about the new case on the blog yet, so how did the DI know where to find them? And ...

  
"What the hell are you doing here?," he demanded.

  
"Well, nice to see you, too," Lestrade said cheerfully. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

  
"No, I wouldn't."

  
Supremely unconcerned, Lestrade took of his sunglasses and greeted John. "Hullo, John."

  
"Greg!"

  
Sherlock frowned. Why would Lestrade call himself by such a name?

  
"I heard you were in the area," the DI said, as if that was somehow explanation enough. "What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?"

  
The phrase caught Sherlock off-guard and he pinned Lestrade with a stare, trying to figure out how much the man knew. Was this some sort of joke? Had he somehow found out? Or was it pure happenstance that he had used this of all phrases? Best cut to the chase.

  
"I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?"

  
"I've told you: I'm on holiday."

  
_'Yes and I'm the bloody King of England.'_ "You're brown as a nut. You've clearly just come back from your 'holidays'." And since when did Lestrade take a holiday at all? He never had, not in all the years Sherlock had known him.

  
Lestrade tried and failed to look nonchalant. "Yeah, well I fancied another one."

  
The excuse was so feeble he might as well not have spoken at all, but it was more than sufficient for Sherlock. "Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?"

  
"No, look ..."

  
And the defensive way he held his body said it all.

  
"Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to ... to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself _Greg_?"

  
"That's his _name_ ," John interjected.

  
"Is it?" How come he hadn't known that? ' _Must've deleted it.'_

  
"Yes - if you'd ever bothered to find out." Lestrade sounded a bit put out. "Look, I'm not your handler and I don't just do what your brother tells me."

  
Sherlock doubted that very much - the memory of waking up in a hospital bed after having been put through withdrawl while in a coma was still fresh in his mind, as was the deal Mycroft had offered him. Clearly the DI had known about that plan in advance.

  
He opened his mouth to reject Lestrade's claim out of hand and send him back to London when John surprised him by interrupting.

  
"Actually, you could be just the man we want."

  
A short while later, they were all grouped around a table with the inn's owners and Lestrade was going through their invoices of the past year. Bored by the mundane quality of the work and still thoroughly convinced that there was more to this case than the obvious answer suggested by the invoices for meat in a vegetarian inn, Sherlock had decided to move on to step two of his little experiment.

  
Step one had been accomplished earlier this morning when he acquired the sugar from Henry's kitchen. He took command of the coffee maker and proceeded to make coffee - something he hadn't done in a while. John usually did that kind of thing. But Sherlock had watched John. He had watched him do nearly everything merely for the enjoyment of seeing him move and accomplish tasks that generally somehow ended up being aimed at an improvment of Sherlock's own wellbeing.

  
Recalling those memories, making coffee was hardly rocket science. And rocket science itself was not exactly difficult, he had no idea why people used it as a synonym for complicated concepts.

  
Once he had a cup filled with the stuff, he reached into his coat pocket and added some of the sugar, making sure no one saw him as he stirred it in.

  
Pleased with the results, he handed the cup to John.

  
"What's this?"

  
"Coffee," Sherlock said. Wasn't that obvious? "I made coffee."

  
"You never make coffee," John pointed out. Ah. That explained his surprise then.

  
"I just did. Don't you want it?"

  
John sighed. "You don't have to keep apologising."

  
Sherlock adopted a hurt look and worked hard to hide his satisfaction. If John thought he was still apologising for what he had said, he wouldn't question his actions too much.

  
Predictably, John gave in and accepted the cup. "Thanks."

  
Sherlock beamed at him, watching like a hawk as John took a sip.

  
He grimaced. "I don't take sugar..."

  
_'I know. Which is why I put it in,'_ Sherlock thought and did his best to give the impression of a kicked puppy. Somehow people seemed to find such an image worthy of pity.  
It worked like a charm - John took another sip.

  
"These records go back nearly two months," Lestrade said, frowning down at the papers.

  
John, clearly using this as an excuse, set down the cup and looked at Sherlock: "That's nice. That's good."

  
_'Liar,'_ Sherlock thought happily. One glance at the cup had told him John had drunk enough.

  
After the innkeepers had owned up to their whole dog scheme, claiming they had had the dog put down a while ago, Lestrade left to have a word with the local Force about the incident.

  
Meanwhile, John turned to Sherlock. "So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?"

  
He sounded doubtful, which Sherlock couldn't fault him for.

  
"Looks like it," he said.

  
John pressed on. "But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog."

  
"No," Sherlock agreed. Hell Hounds were far from ordinary. Still, he had an experiment to run. "It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was _glowing_ , John. It's whole body was glowing."

  
And he was shamelessly exaggerating.

  
Shuddering theatrically, he turned and walked towards the car park. "I've got a theory but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it."

  
"How?," John asked, hurrying after him. "Can't pull off the ID trick again."

  
He was right about that. "Might not have to."

  
Sherlock pulled out his phone and hit speed dial, knowing full well that there was exactly one person who could get him into Baskerville without a problem. He would ask questions, though, because curiousity may kill the cat but Mycroft had already died and was therefore in no danger of a repeat performance. He answered after the first ring.

  
"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock greeted him, making sure to inflict his tone with just the right amount of false friendliness. "How are you?"

  
Full access to Baskerville's labs was arranged within half an hour.

  
*****

 

Once they were on the grounds and out of the jeep, Sherlock sent John ahead into the laboratory with instructions to search for anything suspicious and an enticing 'might be dangerous' for good measure. Not that it was required, of course. Sherlock was quite determined to make sure that there would be nothing dangerous no matter what John perceived at the time.

  
Sherlock himself had a brief visit at Major Barrymore's office in which he managed to thoroughly annoy the man and be accused of being a conspiracist.

  
He left Barrymore there and made his way to the labs, settling on a chair in front of the security monitors in a small room to the side. With his feet on the table, he leaned back in his chair and watched as John explored the lab - up until the point where Sherlock switched off the lights, that is. John's reaction was clearly not in favour of this new development, but he instinctively turned towards the doors only to find that they no longer responded to his key card.

  
Sherlock decided to up the ante a bit and pressed play on his voice recorder, holding it to the microphone. The sound of claws on floor tiles filtered into the lab. After several seconds, the sound of a low, dangerous growl was added to the noise and John, amazingly, fell back on his fight or flight instinct and barricaded himself in an empty cage.

  
Once John pulled the sheet down over the cage, Sherlock's view of him was blocked and he cursed under his breath as the experiment got compromised. Time to re-establish a connection. It was unlikely that John would come back out with a perceived threat still in the laboratory, so Sherlock decided to gather more auditory data. He pulled out his phone and pressed speed dial.

  
John answered on the second ring. "It's here. It's in here with me." His voice was soft but there was no mistaking the fear in it.

  
Sherlock trampled down any feelings of unease and said calmly: "Where are you?"

  
And John, brave, fearless John, actually pleaded with him to get him out of there. Sherlock had to repeatedly ask him to keep talking and tell him what he was seeing, trying to draw a comparison between what John thought he was experiencing and what Sherlock himself had seen - Hell Hound excluded, of course.

  
As he talked, Sherlock finally got up and left the room. Time to get John out of there. The man was close to a panic attack and the point of this experiment was not to trigger John's PTSD - something Sherlock thought he really should have taken into account beforehand. Ah well. Once the case was closed, all would be forgiven and forgotten, he was sure of that. He entered the lab, the phone still held to his ear as he listened to John's quiet voice.

  
"I can see it ... it's here." And then again: "It's here."

  
Sherlock pocketed his phone and pulled back the sheet. In the adjoining room, one of the scientists turned the lights back on, just as he had been instructed to by Sherlock. He looked down at John, now seriously worried as he took in the pale, frightened look on John's face. "Are you all right?"

  
John stared at him, utterly bewildered and disoriented. Sherlock bent and put a hand on his shoulder, trying for reassurance.

  
"John..."

  
"Jesus Christ," John gasped and pulled himself to his feet, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he hurried out of the cage. He was still breathing hard. "It was the hound, Sherlock. It was there. I swear it, Sherlock. It must ..." He paused and looked around the lab, clearly noticing that there was no place a large monstrous dog could possibly be hiding. "It must ... Did ... did you see it? You must have!"

  
Sherlock held out a hand, trying to calm him down. "It's all right. It's okay now."

  
John's voice came out high-pitched and hysterical, a sound Sherlock hadn't even heard from him when he had had a bomb strapped to his chest. "NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY! I saw it. I was wrong!"

  
Was that why John was in such a state? Because he thought he was wrong? That didn't make sense, that was what Sherlock himself would do. How strange. He shrugged it off and tried to make his voice sound as calm as he possibly could. "Well, let's not jump to conclusions."

  
"What?," John asked, disbelief edged into his voice.

  
"What did you see?" Finally, a chance to gather the data he required.

  
John looked exasperated. "I told you: I saw the hound."

  
"Huge, red eyes?," Sherlock prompted.

  
"Yes."

  
"Glowing?"

  
"Yeah."

  
Sherlock bit back a smile. "No."

  
John blinked. "What?"

  
"I made up the bit about the glowing," Sherlock explained. "You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have _all_ been drugged."

  
And he really should have understood that immediately, it was the only reasonable explanation, after all. He wondered what kind of drug it was, though, that would cause such extraordinary hallucinations but leave the victim with no other symptoms.

  
"Drugged?," John asked weakly.

  
"Can you walk?"

  
"'Course I can walk." He would have sounded more convincing if his voice wasn't still shaky.

  
Sherlock smiled. "Come on, then. It's time to slay this ghost."

  
He turned and walked to the door, convinced that John would follow, as he always did. The only question left now was: who had put the drug in Henry Knight's sugar?

  
A short while later, Sherlock had bullied Doctor Stapleton into allowing him use of a microscope to figure out what kind of drug the sugar - some of which he still had in his coat pocket - contained. The only problem was that there was no drug in the sugar at all. Somehow, he and John and their client had all been drugged and the sugar was not what had been used to achieve that goal. For a while, Sherlock felt at a loss. There had to be more to this. There had to be a way and he was reasonably sure that the correct answer lay somewhere in his mind palace.

  
He threw John and Doctor Stapleton out of the lab and sifted through his memories, trying to find the connection. What could 'Liberty', 'In' and 'H.O.U.N.D.' possibly have in common? There couldn't be all too many events that included them all, right?

  
He shoved the French revolution and Elvis aside and went deeper. In ... something about that ... India? Ingolstadt? Indium? No, that didn't make sense. Something that included all three, something that would include drugs of some kind ... his mind went 'click' and there it was.

  
Relieved, he sank back in his chair. Of course ... there had been rumours, once, years ago. He needed more information.

  
Sherlock jumped up from the chair and left the lab without a backwards glance, intend on finding John and Stapleton and getting the information he needed. Major Barrymore's office computer would no doubt hold the answers he required.

  
Hacking into his computer and overriding the security barely took any time at all and the resulting flow of information horrified not only Stapleton and John, but also Sherlock himself. Quite remarkable, in his opinion, seeing as he had already seen more than enough of humanity's capability for cruelty.

  
His intake of information was stopped when John's phone rang. Distantly, he listened as John answered, his attention perking up a bit as John's tone shifted into doctor mode - calm, reassuring, gentle but with an underlying hint of steel that promised immediate care in exchange for honest information about the cause of the problem. Henry's therapist on the other end of the line was a sobbing mess but at least coherent enough to get the basic situation across and that was really all Sherlock needed.

  
The moment John hung up, Sherlock pulled out his own phone and called Lestrade, ordering him to the Hollow immediately. It was time to end this game. And if Henry was going there, armed, then they better make sure they had a gun themselves, if only to stop him from doing something stupid.

  
As it turned out, Doing Something Stupid was exactly what Henry Knight had had in mind when he ran into the Hollow with a gun. They arrived just in time to stop him from killing himself, which was just as well because Sherlock had absolutley no interest in watching his client kill himself just as he had finally discovered who the killer was - nevermind that the method still remained a mystery.

  
Unfortunately, that was the moment when the blasted dog made his appearance again and Sherlock noticed to his dismay that he was apparently still hallucinating - and so were the others. How?! It didn't make sense! He hadn't had any contact at all with Bob Frankland beyond that one meeting at Baskerville, how come they had all been drugged again? Even Lestrade, who had only arrived earlier today, for heaven's sake!

  
Bob Frankland, of all people, solved that mystery for him by suddenly appearing in the Hollow, wearing a gas mask. Sherlock lunged at him and tore it off his head, battling his drug-addled mind that tried to make him see Moriarty's face instead of that of the actual killer, but by then Sherlock had understood what was going on and that was all it took to marshall his mind and gain control of himself and his reactions again. The mist. Of course it had to be the mist.

  
Distantly, he was aware of John and Lestrade shooting at the dog and finally putting the rabid animal out of its misery, but he was too engrossed in his revelation to pay proper attention to them. Crime scene and murder weapon in one! How utterly brilliant!

  
Henry decided that was a great moment to punch Frankland in the face - which the man probably deserved - and the dog decided it was a great moment to prove it wasn't dead yet by getting up again, forcing John to let loose two more bullets before it could attack anyone. And, to complete the chain of moronic ideas, Frankland made a run for it.

  
They all ran after him but Sherlock didn't put much effort into it, even as he and John were closing in on the guy. The map in his mind told him exactly where the scientist was running and if he didn't stop soon, there was no way Sherlock was going to continue chasing him. They reached the minefield just as he decided that he was unlikely to survive stepping on a mine - Fallen or not, he wasn't invincible and being torn to pieces would definitely do the trick of killing him permanently. He wasn't very keen on experiencing that, which was why he stopped at the edge, watching breathlessly as Frankland raced on and then stopped quite suddenly as he realised where his feet had led him.

  
The droop of the man's shoulders told Sherlock all he needed to know and he thought he could actually feel defeat eminating from Frankland as he stood stock still for a moment, apparently contemplating his next move. Which, as it turned out, happened to also be his last.

  
As the smoke cleared and they managed to catch their breath after that impromptu chase, they spent a couple of minutes just standing there, none of them sure what to do.

  
Finally, by some unspoken agreement, they turned and walked away. The blast had been loud enough to be heard at Baskerville, so there was no doubt someone would come to investigate the cause of the noise soon and discover the bits and pieces that used to be Bob Frankland. Sherlock, for his part, saw no need to get involved in that particular mess, though of course the effects of stepping on a landmine would be quite fascinating to examine in the morgue. He made a mental note to find out where the body had been brought in later on.

  
Lestrade had, after some long seconds, blown out a shaky breath and said "Thank fuck I'm on holiday" and Henry was too relieved to have finally gotten the answers he had been looking for to care much about his surroundings.

  
And John? Well ... John looked a bit shaken, but otherwise was his usual stoic self. Sherlock assumed his friend had seen his fair share of these things happen in Afghanistan. He made another mental note to break into John's hotel room later that evening in order to watch and wake him the moment he showed signs of having a nightmare.

  
There was no nightmare, however, and he found himself sitting by the bed, watching John sleep the entire night, trying to somehow understand how and when he had breathed in a flock of moths and what they were doing fluttering about inside his chest. He snuck out just before dawn and spent breakfast watching John and explaining about the sugar and the experiment in the lab. He admitted to having been wrong, promising to not let it happen again. The idea of anyone other than him exposing John to potentially harmful drugs made his head hurt and fury rise somewhere inside him.

  
"Any long-term effects?," John asked casually, still eating.

  
"None at all," Sherlock was happy to assure him. "You’ll be fine once you’ve excreted it. We all will."

  
John hummed. "Think I might have taken care of that already."

  
The matter-of-fact statement made Sherlock snort a laugh and he had to turn his head away, scared of what his expression might betray. Deciding that the moment called for a bit of physical distance before he did something very stupid, he got up and walked away, fabricating an excuse about the dog as he went.

  
The moths refused to quiet down.


	17. Part 4 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos!

**Part IV**

 

  
_"The trick is not to die for a friend, but to find a friend worth dying for."_   
_\- Mark Twain_

 

  
**Chapter 1**

 

This was quite possibly the most boring day Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had ever experienced in all his time on the Force. Of course, there had been the time when their computers had all been down due to a system update and they had been forced to write their reports by hand. But even then they had had some fun in comparing handwritings, unanimously crowning Dimmock as King of the Broken Pen - a nickname that still followed him.

  
Today, though, there was not even a contest in bad penmanship going on. There was nothing but boring paperwork in triplicate. Before he had started working for the Force, Lestrade hadn't known that it was possible to triple boredom, but of course bureaucracy had found a way to make it happen.

  
The trouble was, he had already finished most of his reports - in triplicate - and delegated the rest. As a result, there was nothing for him to do but to go on lunch break. At ten o'clock in the morning.

  
He was just enjoying a pastry and a cup of coffee from the bakery around the corner when the door opened and Sergeant Donovan stuck her head in.

  
"We've got a break-in."

  
Lestrade rolled his eyes, his words muffled by the pastry. "Not our division."

  
"You'll want this one," she told him, absolute conviction in her voice.

  
Her tone made him curious and five minutes later, he was sitting in the car, racing towards the Tower as quickly as the typical London traffic would allow. An attempt at stealing the Crown Jewels! Such a thing hadn't been attempted in ages!

  
Sally got a call and turned as pale as her colouring would allow. "Sir!"

  
"Tell them we're on our way already!," he snapped, stress pouring out of him as he thought of the mess they would have to navigate in this case. The paperwork would never end.

  
"There's another one," she called across the sound of the siren. "Bank of England!"

  
He cursed, long and fluently, but was interrupted by a beep from Sally's phone and her strangled voice: "Penterville Prison!"

  
Lestrade gave her a surprised look, tearing his eyes off the road for a second. "A break-in in a prison?!"

  
"No! A massive break-out, Sir."

  
"Bloody hell."

  
They pulled up at the Tower just as the police was ready to storm the place and Lestrade was among the first to enter after the initial wave of members of the special unit.

  
The sight that greeted him was one he would never forget for as long as he lived.

  
The man had broken the glass casing and was sitting on the throne, wearing jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt, a red cloak rimmed with hermelin pelt and holding a golden sceptre studded with diamonds. He was listening to music on his ipod and on his head he wore a massive crown.

  
When he caught sight of the police, he made no move to flee. In fact, his only reaction was a blank look, as if he couldn't understand why they were making such a fuss.

  
"No rush."

  
It was the most arrogant thing Lestrade had ever seen or heard, and that included seven years of knowning Sherlock Holmes.

  
When he finally went to bed many hours later, just as the sun was slowly creeping up from behind the horizon to start a new day, Lestrade was forced to admit that his initial assumption had been entirely wrong. This had quite definitely been the most eventful day of his career - even counting that time when Sherlock and the suspect he had been chasing at the time fell into the Thames in mid-February.

  
*****

 

The trial of Jim Moriarty, quickly labelled "the trial of the century" by the media in blatant ignorance of half a dozen other "trials of the century" - the _same_ century -, snuck up on Sherlock the same way laundry day did. That was to say, he deleted its existence from his mind until he was first rudely reminded of it by either Mrs Hudson or John and then forced to attend.

  
When the upcoming trial had first been mentioned, Sherlock had not understood why people made such a fuss about it. The outcome was obvious, wasn't it? Despite overwhelming evidence of his guilt and the fact that he had been caught _inflagrante delicti_ , Moriarty would walk free. It was the only possible outcome. Otherwise, the consulting criminal wouldn't have bothered getting himself arrested. Sherlock had no doubt the man was capable of accomplishing everything he had done on the day of his arrest, only without anyone noticing until it was already too late.

  
The entire idea of a trial was therefore utterly superfluous and not worth his time. It irked him to have been called on as a star witness, knowing full well that it was only because Moriarty wanted him there. Hateful man. Their game had stopped being fun the moment John had been involuntarily involved in it. The memory of that night at the pool was a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth.

  
"So," John said one morning as they were having breakfast together in quiet domesticity. "The trial's today. You might want to get dressed in a suit."

  
"Dull," he said, hiding his surprise (that farce of a trial was today?!) behind a mask of boredom.

  
"How can you say that?," John demanded. "They'll lock him up for good after this, you'll see. No more sick games and bombs. I know it will inflict you with a life of utter boredom, but could you at least _try_ to pretend to be happy for everyone else out there?"

  
Sherlock gave him a level look, keeping his expression blank as he let out a long-suffering sigh. _Oh John_. His faith in the British legal system would get him into trouble one day, but there was no point trying to make him understand Sherlock's view. John did not believe there was a way for the jury to be influenced in Moriarty's favour. Sherlock had come up with no less than five.

  
Still, he got up and allowed John to shove him towards the bathroom with instructions to shower and then get properly dressed. He tried to ignore the way John's hands pressed to his shoulder blades, his thumbs only separated from the raw scars on his back by the thin fabric of his blue silk robe and t-shirt. The warmth of his touch seeped through the cotton and silk and right into his skin, somehow lessening the constant painful throbbing whereas pressure on normal wounds would only increase it.

  
"There," John said, opening the bathroom door and pushing Sherlock through. "Hurry up, we'll have to be in court at noon."

  
_'We.'_ Sherlock smiled. There was no reason for John to be there at all, yet he had immediately included himself, as if the very idea of his staying away was unthinkable.

  
He did as he was told, undressing and showering with quick efficiency, drying his hair with their ancient blow dryer before entering his bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Several suits in his closets would work but he didn't want anything too flashy. That was important, he knew, to keep the jury happy. Nothing shabby or they'd not take him seriously. Nothing too obviously expensive or they would dislike him for his apparent richness. Tedious.

  
Finally, he selected one of his nicer work suits, chosing a new one that had not aquired any chemical stains yet. He got dressed quickly, nimble fingers moving over shirt buttons and fixing his collar.

  
When he returned to the living room, he found that John had also dressed for the occasion, not bothering with a suit but wearing finer clothing than he usually did. Blue eyes fixed on Sherlock the moment he walked into the room.

  
"Need help with your cuffs?," he asked, and Sherlock gave a mute nod. He could have closed them himself, it was not exactly difficult, but he liked the excuse to have John touch him, these hands that could kill and heal with equal capability so gentle when they were turned to him.

  
While John was preoccupied, Sherlock took the time to give him a thorough once-over, noting the new shirt and polished shoes. No jumper today. He liked that - the woolen monstrosities did their best to make John look pudgier where in fact he was still well-muscled, concealing strength with an illusion of soft, weak flesh.

  
Sherlock liked this far better, his eyes tracing the suggestion of a well-defined chest and broad shoulders.

  
John stepped back when he was done with the cuffs and they both turned to stare at themselves in the mirror, their eyes meeting in the glass. There was an encouraging smile lurking in John's eyes, along with something else, a spark that normally only appeared when they were breathless from a chase, adrenalin singing in their veins. Sherlock swallowed.

  
They made their way down the stairs and to the door, both mindful of the horde of reporters and photographers outside. Another moronic thing. There was nothing at all interesting about either of them and Sherlock hated the bright flashes of their cameras, leaving him blinded for seconds at a time - an unbearable deprivation of his most valued sense.

  
By some unspoken agreement, both he and John paused in the hallway by the front door, taking a breath and collecting themselves.

  
"Ready?," John asked, a trace of worry in his eyes and the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

  
The sudden surge of the desperate desire to kiss that mouth hit him completely unprepared and for a moment, Sherlock was left reeling. He nodded, unthinkingly leaning forward.

  
But John had missed the sudden flash of desire and interpreted Sherlock's nod as confirmation to open the door. He turned away and did just that, forcing Sherlock to straighten up and disguise his forward movement as pushing himself away from the wall, the unbidden idea of kissing John forcibly shoved into the very back of his mind palace, to be re-evaluated at a later time.

  
A moment later, the door was open and the flashlights blinding them both as they stepped out of the sheltered heaven of 221b Baker Street.

  
*****

 

The atmosphere inside the court room was tense and expectant. It dawned on Sherlock that everyone in this room believed Moriarty would be judged guilty - everyone but him, the jury and Moriarty himself.

  
Sherlock made use of a short break in the proceedings to use the loo. He shouldn't have let John talk him into drinking that tea, his transport was being completely unreasonable now.

  
He was not even surprised when he found himself with an audience while washing hands. With all the attention this farce had attracted, it was hardly a surprise. And he had expected a woman, despite the sign outside labelling this the men's room. He wondered if he was even allowed to use the men's bathroom at all. Maybe he should use the one for the disabled. He was definitely missing two important parts of his body.

  
The woman staring at him - even going so far as to drop her bag and say his name in awe - was trying too hard. A button with his name on it? Really? The very notion was preposterous.

  
So was her assumption that he wouldn't be able to see through her, far beyond the purposefully applied hints about her profession and right to the truth about her life. He didn't care if his words hurt her feelings - she hadn't cared about invading his privacy with her presence and questions either, after all.

  
As such, Sherlock brushed her off with as little curtesy as possible, making for the door.

  
"You and John Watson - platonic or is there more?"

  
The question itself was idiotic. It was entirely possible to have platonic feelings for a person and still feel deeply for them. Not that such was the case with him and John, of course, but the point still stood. He was not quite sure how much more there was, but his suspicions ran deep - so deep he no longer dared to even think them in the privacy of his own mind.

  
"You might want to clear that up," Kitty Riley said, the hidden suggestion obvious. "You will need someone to set things straight."

  
"And you're just the woman for that job?," he inquired, his tone doubtful. There was nothing about her to suggest she had any kind of influence or couldn't be cowed into silence by either himself or - if worse came to worst - Mycroft. It was a long-standing fact that few people could stand before his brother without fear of having the secrets of their past and present revealed. Kitty Riley was no threat to him.

  
He left her standing there with a smug "good day" and returned to the court room, ready to take his place in the witness stand.

  
His position provided him with a good view of the entire room and everyone in it and his deductions flowed rapidly. He barely spared a glance for Moriarty, chewing gum with the general air of someone who had randomly ambled into the room and stayed to watch the proceedings out of curiousity without any personal involvement.

  
Sherlock ignored him, speaking only to the jury as he explained who and what Moriarty really was, how far his reach went - not that he had to, seeing as they probably already knew that from personal experience.

  
The judge, however, was not amused, and accused him of being a know-it-all when he turned his observations on the jury to prove his abilities.

  
Unknowingly, the man hit a sore spot with his comment. It may have happened over two thousand years ago, but one's own death was not something one was likely to forget and Sherlock's memory was better than most. He and Mycroft had died for being too smart by half, condemned to death by people's fear of things they did not understand.

  
The reminder made him furious and he promptly forgot everything John had told him during the drive from Baker Street to court, his deductions spilling forth with ice cold precision and barely controlled anger.

  
Five minutes later, he and Moriarty were locked in adjoining cells to cool off.

  
*****

 

When John called to tell him about the verdict - not guilty - Sherlock walked into the kitchen and began making tea. Some small part of his mind was busy calculating the fastest way from the court house to Baker Street and how long that might take. He put two saucers, cups, spoons and the pot of tea onto a tablet, having nicked Mrs Hudson's favourite tea set for the occasion.

  
A lot depended on this meeting and he knew Moriarty was on his way here with absolute certainty, despite the fact that neither of them had even hinted at arranging a meeting. The intention had been obvious from the first.

  
The tea was just ready and Sherlock was busy playing the violin when Moriarty walked into 221b as if he owned the place, making a disparaging comment about the music. Sherlock, who had known Bach personally, was not impressed. He also wasn't interested in an idle conversation about music.

  
He pretended to be miffed, hiding his pleasure when Moriarty, contrary to the last detail, sat in his own chair instead of John's, which Sherlock had indicated. He did not want this so-called consulting criminal sitting in the armchair of a man who was above and beyond Sherlock's wildest expectations of a good human being.

  
Moriarty sat in his chair like a king on a throne, grimacing as Sherlock handed him his tea with the handle of the cup purposefully on the wrong side. It was a petty thing to do, yes, but Moriarty would view it as retaliation for taking Sherlock's chair. It was essential that he did not realise he was being led along like a puppet on a string, giving invaluable insights into the way his mind worked with every small action.

  
One thing quickly became apparent: his delusional arrogance.

  
"Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain." His words only underlined what his every action had already shown - that he did indeed think of himself as the most dangerous man on the playing field, that he saw the world separated into black and white and placed himself firmly on the dark side, considering everyone else an enemy.

  
Paranoia, an inflated ego, delusions of power and the intelligence to see his insane plans through to fullfillment ... it was a dangerous, highly explosive cocktail and the pin holding everything in balance was precariously loose. One sharp tug in the right direction would be all it took. All Sherlock had to do was figure out which way to pull.

  
Moriarty made it easy for him, telling him all about the computer code he had supposedly invented that gave him access to every computer system on the planet. An impossibility, if there ever was one. Yet Sherlock gave every indication of having taken the bait, deliberately focusing his eyes on the tap-tap-tap of the other man's fingers.

  
It was a dangerous game, he knew, but there was no other option. Moriarty needed to be stopped at all costs, before he wrought more damage on this planet than he already had. It would not be the first time Sherlock was forced to take action against an overly power-hungry human, but never before had he done so without his wings. With his own mortality a question left unanswered and John his obvious Achilles heel, the stakes were far higher than ever before.

  
"I owe you, Sherlock," Jim told him, working at an apple with his pocket knife. He paused, considering. "Falling is just like flying, only with a more permanent destination."

  
Pursing his lips, he mimicked the cartoonish sound of something falling from a high place, his hand shooting downward as if on an invisible roller coaster. "I owe you a fall."

  
_'There it is,'_ Sherlock thought, deep satisfaction gripping him. This was what he had been waiting for - an indication of what Moriarty's end game was. He had just gotten it.

  
Moriarty did not want something as dull as his death - he wanted his total annihilation, to destroy not only his life, but also his life's work, not knowing that there was far more to undo than the work of the past three decades. Well then, he was welcome to try.

  
*****

 

Mycroft Holmes prided himself for always being in complete control of any given situation. To be anything less would be gross neglect and have potentially lethal consequences for dozens if not thousands of people. The one thing he had never quite managed to get a handle on was his own brother.

  
It was therefore not at all surprising to him that Sherlock had once again gotten himself involved in a dreadful mess and required his help to get out of it. Not that he would ever openly admit to that or even ask for help - perish the thought!

  
And of course Mycroft himself was not helping him for purely altruistic motives. He would gladly (and in some cases even literally) move Heaven and Earth for his brother, and had even done so in the past, but this time he had his own motives for interfering. Moriarty needed to be stopped, the quicker the better. The man's reach extended farther than even Sherlock knew, and Mycroft's eye for strategies and politics was more than keen enough to take in all possible consequences.

  
Each scenario his mind conjured was worse than the one preceding it. The general population would not even notice Moriarty's influence except in small newspaper articles announcing the rise of crime rates - but on a global scale the consequences would be devastating if you knew where to look.

  
Mycroft knew.

  
Which was why he was currently sitting at the heavy mahogany desk in his personal office, gaze intent on a laptop as his fingers flew across the keyboard. Oh, how he loved this age of modern technology! A few strokes of the keys, a handful of lines of basic code, and history was inevitably altered in ways that used to take years to accomplish in centuries past.

  
In some ways, things used to be easier, more straightforward, and the time available to respond to events was measured in days or weeks instead of hours and minutes, but none of what he and Sherlock were so carefully planning right now would have been possible back then.

  
When Jim Moriarty had been pronounced not guilty of the crimes laid before him, Sherlock had barely waited for the consulting criminal to leave his home before setting up a meeting with his brother, hidden away from the eyes of the world in a place so top secret only the two of them even knew it existed or how to get there.

  
As he kept typing away on the laptop, part of his mind strayed back to their conversation...

  
"He could not have made his goal more obvious if he had tried," Sherlock said, his tone and face displaying equal disgust.

  
"Total annihilation, or what he considers as such," Mycroft agreed, nodding. "An admirably ambitious goal, even for human standards."

  
"He will fail, of course," Sherlock's voice was flat. "To our eyes, at least."

  
The addition made alarm bells ring in his head. "You expect him to succeed in human eyes?"

  
His brother shrugged. "It is very likely. In fact, I am beginning to think his success should be made certain."

  
They shared a look, heavy with implications. After so long, they knew each other's thought process well enough to only use words to outline the rough direction of their conversation.

  
Mycroft's mind raced, drawing up and discarding various scenarios, taking into account the way his brother's mind worked, and coming to the most likely conclusion.

"Cunning."

  
"Effective."

  
"It will require certain sacrifices, of course," he pointed out.

  
"Of course," Sherlock agreed, grimacing. It was plain to see he did not like this part of his plan. "I was hoping to arrange a diversion ..."

  
The unspoken question hung in the air between them.

  
Mycroft nodded. "I will do my best to assist you, seeing as you ... _care_ ... so much for him."

  
The word felt foreign on his tongue, being one he seldom used. Yet even as he spoke, he could not help but wonder if maybe there was more to it, if Sherlock had finally ... but no. There were no signs to indicate its occurrance. If it ever came to pass, he would know the moment he looked at his brother, he was certain.

  
Sherlock looked put off by his use of the word as well, glaring at him. "Don't turn this into something it's not, Mycroft."

  
"Am I, though? Am I really?," he shot back. "Think long and hard about this, brother. You may just find that it is not I who is blind to the truth."

  
His younger brother frowned, but did not argue. Ah. Of course. The thought had already occurred to him. And frequently so, from the slightly pained expression in his eyes. Mycroft suppressed a sigh, wishing he could get him to finally act on his suspicions. But Sherlock, having been burned once too often, now shunned the fire. As a result, he was caught in limbo, yearning for its warmth and light, yet not daring to approach. A pitiful state.

  
"I want your word," Sherlock said, drawing him from his thoughts.

  
Mycroft stared at him. "My word?"

  
"That you will do everything in your power to make this part of the plan succeed. I do not care about the rest of it, there are ... possibilities ..."

  
He nodded in understanding. Sherlock could not bring himself to say or even think about said possibilities, and nor would Mycroft himself. Calling the silence by its name put an end to it, after all, and such an event needed to be avoided at all costs. The possibility was left unacknowledged, not even thought of as they both skirted the edge of the idea without ever actually touching its heart.

  
His brother continued: "But whatever the outcome, I ask this of you. John ... Whatever happens, I want your word that you will do everything, absolutely everything in your power, to prevent this one thing from happening."

  
Perhaps it was the quiet desperation in his brother's voice, or maybe his own wish to finally see Sherlock happy. Whatever the cause may be, he found himself responding not from his mind but his heart, lacing his answer with all the love he held for his brother.

  
"I promise."

  
Sherlock nodded, the storm of sentiment once more banished from his eyes, once again hidden behind the mask of cool indifference he wore like a shield.

  
The memory of the look in his eyes remained, however, and Mycroft sighed in the privacy of his office. He had given his word and he would keep it, as he always did. Returning his full attention to the laptop in front of him, he stretched and relaxed his wings in calm intervals, their movement a gentle reminder of who and what he was as he re-wrote the history of his brother's recent life into something for Moriarty to exploit.

  
******

 

In the end, it was a mixture of Moriarty's plans and exceedingly bad luck that tipped the scales in the consulting criminal's favour.

  
Sherlock did not know whether to be relieved that the waiting was over or feel defeated. Deep down, a part of him had still hoped the whole thing would be resolved without the necessity of desperate measures.

  
It started with Donovan questioning the way he found the old plant with the abducted children inside, using nothing but microscopic particles taken off a shoe print. Perhaps she was right to question him - she always did, after all, and the only lab results she had learned to rely on came from the likes of Anderson. The lab at Barts was technologically far more advanced, which was why Sherlock preferred it over every other lab in all of London. That, and the fact that Molly allowed him to get away with many things other pathologists would never let slide.

  
But then, when Sherlock thought the successful discovery of the children had appeased her, things went downhill by one tiny little fact.

  
The little girl sitting in the hospital room had the Sight.

  
He walked into the room, she looked at him and started to scream.

  
Lestrade may be startled and John excused it as the "Sherlock Effect" ("happens with a lot of kids"), but her reaction was no surprise to him. Many children had the Sight but lost it in later years when adults finally managed to raise them out of their imagination and strong beliefs in fantasy.

  
And, well, he knew what he looked like to her. A monster out of a nightmare - where he saw only scars and felt the painful absence of his wings, others could still see bleeding wounds where his wings had been or their tattered remains, blackened and burned to mark him as disgraced and unable to carry his weight. Fallen.

  
But the girl's reaction, a fearful scream in the face of a walking nightmare, was what finally convinced Donovan and Anderson that their long-held suspicions were accurate - that Sherlock had abducted the children himself, had probably even committed many of the other crimes he had claimed to have so brilliantly solved in the past.

  
As John and Lestrade ushered him out of the room and away from the girl, he was already resigned to the fact that Moriarty's plan was inexorably in motion. He could only hope that Moriarty was going to act in the way he had predicted - and, if worse came to worst, that his brother would hold true to his promise.


	18. Part 4 - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most of this is familiar, though I took the freedom and added some stuff here and there. Bear with me, we're going AU after Reichenbach. And thank you again for your lovely comments and kudos!

**Chapter 2**

 

The taxi ride with Moriarty and his insane bedtime story, followed immediately by the death of a known assassin, left Sherlock rattled. He was not the only one - he could see that John, who had thankfully not been present for his encounter with Moriarty, was just as shaken. No one liked seeing a person shot to death right in front of them and John already had enough war-related traumata. He certainly didn't need any more. It only made the severity of Sherlock's situation more painful.

  
Once he and John had returned to the relative safety of Baker Street, Sherlock immediately went to do the one thing he should have done far earlier - he started checking for cameras. Dust was eloquent, after all. Books and papers could be put back into their rightful place once they had been moved, but anyone setting up surveillance equipment would be hard-pressed to replace the dust.

  
He was just balancing on the headrest of his armchair, checking the bookshelf, when John returned from answering the door with Detecitve Inspector Lestrade in tow.

  
_'That was quick,'_ Sherlock thought, surprised at the bitterness he felt - he had come to think of Lestrade as an ally, had thought he would hold on to his faith in him longer. But apparently that was not the case.

  
"No, Inspector."

  
Lestrade seemed surprised. "What?"

  
Sherlock, having removed the camera, stepped down from the armchair. "The answer is no."

  
"But you haven't heard the question!"

  
"You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking." Wasn't that obvious?

  
And of course it had been Donovan; Lestrade's face when he suggested as much confirmed it. Donovan, probably backed up by Anderson, the two of them united in their dislike of him, suspicion fuelled by feelings of spite. Oh well, it was already too late. But he would not let Moriarty win that easily - or even allow him to think he had won - without putting up a fight.

  
"One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch," he explained, hoping against hope that the DI would listen, would understand.

  
Lestrade left soon afterwards, but John remained, radiating worry and anxiousness. Sherlock found himself wishing he could do something, anything, to ease his friend's worry, but his own panic was overwhelming his thought process, fear clamouring in his throat as he told John that they were going to decide whether to arrest him or not. It wasn't the arrest he feared, though.

  
John sighed. "People will think-"

  
"I don't care what people think!," Sherlock snapped at him.

  
But John, stubbornly, held his ground, and finally got to what was really bothering him. "I don't want the world believing you're..."

  
He broke off, much to Sherlock's frustration. "That I am what?"

  
When he replied, his voice sounded small. "A fraud."

  
_'Of course'_. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back. "You're worried they're right."

  
"What?"

  
"You're worried they're right about me," he elaborated, the fear a lump in his throat.

  
"No," John said, rather vehemently.

  
But Sherlock was on a roll now, and incapable of stopping. "That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

  
John didn't much like that, going so far as to turn away as he answered. "No, I'm not."

  
_'Really? Please be telling the truth. Don't lose faith in me.'_ He couldn't bear that.

  
Leaning forward, he continued, his tone urgent. "Moriarty is playing with your mind too." Suddenly furious with the criminal and the way he undermined their friendship, he slammed his hand on the table. "Can't you _see_ what's going on?"

  
His outburst at least caused John to look at him again. "No, I know you're for real."

  
It was the quiet conviction in his voice that made Sherlock hesitate, that made him show all his ridiculous sentiment by pressing further. "A hundred percent?"

  
John's voice was low but determined when he replied. "Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time."

  
Their eyes met and held and Sherlock almost sobbed with relief as the strange spark between them sizzled to life once more, thickening the air. He quirked the corners of his mouth upwards in a poor facsimile of a smile.

  
"You're the only one who will see it that way," he pointed out, trying hard to banish the bitterness from his voice.

  
John shrugged. "Well, no one's ever bothered to see you any other way, have they?"

  
He sounded angry, as if he could not believe that people saw Sherlock as anything but amazing and brilliant, the way he did.

  
"I never allowed anyone to see me any other way," he admitted quietly. He had given them glimpses, sometimes - and by 'them' he actually meant only Lestrade and Mrs Hudson - but the DI had already been turned against him. The knowledge made him sad and fear coiled in his gut. If John were to lose faith in him as well ... no.

  
"Well, they didn't exactly give you a chance," John pointed out, grimacing. Finally, he left his place by the window and came closer, settling against the edge of the desk Sherlock was working on - not that he was paying any attention to his laptop right now.

  
His words hit closer to home than Sherlock would have liked, his chest tightening uncomfortably as he recalled all the times he had reached out only to be rebuffed and rejected over and over again. In so many ways, John had been the first to truly see him - highly ironic, considering he could not see him for what he really was at all. But maybe, just maybe, the good doctor had a better grasp on what made Sherlock Sherlock than was determined by the absence or presence of wings.

  
For one long, elating moment, he was tempted to open his mouth and tell him everything, to confess that they were all wrong about him, to open his eyes and look at the soul that lay hidden in this kind man's body ... but he couldn't.

  
The risk was too great and the timing all wrong and really, expecting John to believe this when he was just barely clinging to the faith he currently had in Sherlock would be quite insane.

  
Some of the raw desperation he was feeling must have bled into his gaze, for John frowned and leaned closer, clearly worried. "Are you okay?"

  
_'No,'_ he thought, despairing. _'I'm so far from okay you wouldn't believe me if I told you. I haven't been okay since long before we met, but you've made it all bearable and now it's only a matter of time before you are taken away from me, too.'_

  
"Fine," he muttered instead, firmly shoving all this foolish sentiment back. There was no time to deal with sentiment right now, not while the world was falling apart around him and he had no way of stopping it - had actually been the one who made sure it happened in the first place.

  
"Sherlock-," John started, but whatever it was he meant to say, it got lost when his phone rang.

  
"Hello?"

  
His face lost all colour as he listened, and his "Thank's Greg" was all it took to confirm both the identity of the caller and his reasons for calling.

  
"So, still got some friends on the Force. It's Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people," John told him, lowering his phone.

  
Sherlock barely paid attention, too caught up in his own thoughts, watching the chess pieces move into position on the board.

  
Just then, Mrs Hudson came back in, apologising for the interruption as she noticed the tension in the room. Sherlock wanted to rail against her for thinking now was a good time to deliver a package, but then she commented on the sender - German, like the fairytales - and he came closer, watching as John showed him what was inside - a burned gingerbread man. How very symbolic.

  
*****

 

While they were still staring down at the grotesque offering, sirens announced the arrival of several police cars outside Baker Street. It was a bit ridiculous, really. Who did they think he was, Jack the Ripper? Al Capone? He was hardly going to put up a fight getting arrested, there was no point in having that many officers arrive on scene.

  
Mrs Hudson hurried down the stairs to loudly protest their barging in like that while John moved to block the stairs, furiously demanding to see an arrest warrant. Sherlock wondered if it was possible for his friend to also have studied law at some point but decided it was unlikely. Ignoring the ruckus of at least half a dozen members of the Force trampeling up the stairs, Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck and put on his coat, his mind racing with possibilities.

  
It was quite telling that Lestrade, for all his stern demanour, could not bring himself to personally put him in handcuffs, leaving that task to two younger officers even as John continued his protest.

  
"He's not resisting!," he pointed out through gritted teeth.

  
"It's all right, John," Sherlock told him.

  
"He's not resisting," John repeated, then seemed to understand what he had said. "No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

  
Lestrade, completely ignoring John, nodded at the officer behind Sherlock. "Get him downstairs now."

  
The man did so, spinning him around rather roughly and marching him from the room, past a teary-eyed Mrs Hudson. Sherlock took one look at her face and committed it to memory, his earlier fear replaced with fury. They would pay for making this kind woman cry.

  
They led him down the stairs and out onto the street, past several other officers who looked at him with expressions varying from contempt to smugness. He ignored them all, allowing the officer to push him against the driver's side of the car. In his mind, he was going over the scene, recalling everyone's position and working out the optimal escape route.

  
He was torn from his thoughts when the sound of general nervous movement alerted him to the Chief Superintendent walking out of the door. Studying the reflection in the car window, Sherlock saw that the man was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

  
A moment later, the reflection was obscured by John being slammed against the car right next to Sherlock, his hands behind his back and anger radiating from every angle of his body.

  
"Joining me?," Sherlock asked, not even bothering to hide his glee.

  
John grunted. "Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent."

  
Sherlock had to turn his head away to hide his smile, feeling something flutter in his chest that might be happiness. Distantly, he became aware of two officers holding him and John against the car as they freed his right wrist from the handcuff to snap it closed around John's instead. He looked over his shoulder to confirm the positions of everyone in relation to him and John.

  
"Hmm. Bit awkward, this," he said thoughtfully, keeping his voice low.

  
"Huh," John agreed. "No one to bail us."

  
Sherlock had to bite back a smirk. "I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

  
On the dashboard of the squad car, the radio squealed as the dispatcher spoke.

  
John turned his head this way and that in confusion. "What?"

  
Without further ado, Sherlock moved, his free hand shooting through the open car window and pressing down on the Talk button. The feedback ripping through the surrounding officers' earpieces made them double over in pain and he took full advantage of their momentary disorientation, relieving the closest officer of his gun. He raised it into the air, the movement a bit hindered by John's right hand being handcuffed to his left, and aimed at the nearest officers.

  
"Ladies and gentlemen, will you please get on your knees?" Manners were important. If he got slandered in the media, he at least wanted them to write he had been polite about his escape.

  
He caught a glance at Lestrade, who looked torn between shock and exasperation. No one reacted to his words, though, so he pulled the trigger twice, making sure to aim skywards.

  
"NOW would be good!"

  
Lestrade was the first to get over his shock. "Do as he says!," he commanded, gesturing for everyone to get down. Sherlock started to back away, forcing John to retreat with him.

  
His friend was clearly not happy with this turn of events. "Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a ... you know ..." He gestured uselessly with his other hand.

  
Sherlock had to admit that holding the gun like this was a bit awkward, so he transferred it to his right hand, aiming the muzzle at John's head as a plan began to form.

  
"... my hostage."

  
John sucked in a breath, suddenly excited. "Hostage!," he hissed quietly. "Yes, that works - that works!"

  
Sherlock could have kissed him for that - clearly John was the only person on the planet to get excited and start handing out praise for being held hostage. How very not-dull of him!

  
They continued backing away until they reached the corner and stepped out of sight.

  
"So what now?," John asked, looking both nervous and exhilarated at once.

  
"Doing what Moriarty wants," Sherlock explained. "I'm becoming a fugitive. Run!"

  
He turned and raced down the road, dragging John with him. Thankfully they had spent a lot of time running through the city at night in the past year and a half, quickly falling into a mutually acceptable pace. The handcuffs were a bit of a hindrance, making their movements too uncoordinated, so Sherlock looped the loose chain around his wrist.

  
"Take my hand," he commanded.

  
To his relief, John did so immediately, neither of them slowing down. "Now people will _definitely_ talk."

  
His comment made Sherlock want to laugh and cry at the same time. _'Oh John.'_

  
There was a junction ahead of them and even a deaf man could have heard the sirens approaching from that direction. Sherlock swerved left, losing his grip on the gun in the process. It clattered noisily to the ground but he didn't stop to scoop it up.

  
"The gun!," John called, panicked. Of course he would feel better having a weapon, but there was no time.

  
"Leave it!," Sherlock called and shoved him down a side alley, managing to get out of sight just before the police car raced across the junction. They ran down the alley until they came upon high railings blocking their way. Typical. Sherlock, mind racing a hundred miles an hour and desperately wishing for his wings, jumped on top of a dustbin and vaulted straight over the fence, temporarily forgetting about the handcuffs.

  
"Sherlock, wait!"

  
A strong hand grasped his coat and dragged him closer to the fence and John's angry face behind it.

  
"We're going to need to coordinate," John ordered, his voice that of Captain John Watson. It made Sherlock go a bit weak in the knees to have that tone directed at him, but there was no time for such nonsense now. His eyes took in the scene, trying to find a weak point in the railings for John to scale.

  
"Go to your right," he finally ordered, raising their hands high enough for the chain to slip across the spiked ends on top of the fence.

  
Using the wall of the house and a convenient dustbin, John scrambled across the fence and staggered right against Sherlock's chest with a grunt. Trying to keep their balance, Sherlock took a step forward, crowding John against the wall to keep them both upright.

  
The moment he did it, he realised it was a mistake.

  
Their bodies were too close together, John's face only inches from his. Sensory overload coupled with the rush of adrenaline and arousal slammed into him with all the force of a wrecking ball. The fear and anger coiling in his gut were swiftly replaced by an entirely different sensation and the urge to lean closer was almost overwhelming.

  
" _Sherlock_..."

  
His name was both a question and a plea on John's lips and when he finally managed to drag his gaze up to look his friend in the eye, he was barely surprised to find him looking back with dilated pupils, uncertainty rapidly replaced with lust as John licked his lips.

  
The action erased all the events of the night from Sherlock's mind, leaving nothing but the certain knowledge that he was here, hidden from view in the deepest, darkest shadows of a deserted alley, and John was right in front of him. He could feel the warmth of his body, hear and feel every rapid breath brushing across his suddenly too-sensitive skin, and the scent of tea and gunpowder and laundry detergent and something warm that was all John made him light-headed.

  
"John."

  
It was less of a spoken word and more a rumble in his chest, hardly the correct way to address a friend, but Sherlock was lost to the desperate part of his mind that said _'good, yes, want, need, fuck'_ and demanded he press closer, intent on finally tearing down the walls they had so carefully built between themselves.

  
For the fraction of a second, the memory of Victor flitted across his mind, but it was discarded as quickly as it had appeared - back then, all of this would have been highly illegal on top of the personal risk, but now there was no law to stop them, nothing but all of Scotland Yard out on a manhunt...

  
Reality slapped him in the face and he drew a shaky breath, stumbling backwards as he fought to reclaim his mental equilibrium. John, who should have been relieved to have his personal space to himself again, made a pitiful noise and swayed forward instead, closer to Sherlock.

  
The temptation to discard their situation and just stay here in this little bubble was almost too much to resist, but by now he had remembered why it was so important to flee from the police.

  
"Come on," he gasped, pulling John with him as he turned and continued down the alley at a hurried pace. Maybe, if he just ran far and fast enough, he could leave this wall and all his desires behind.


	19. Part 4 - Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

About an hour later, after a mad dash through what felt like half of London and an unexpected game of "Let's play lemming" involving a bus and an international assassin, a newspaper in the trash led them to Kitty Riley's flat. Sherlock wasn't sure whether the fact that her card had been in the pocket of the suit he was wearing right now was a coincidence or divine intervention. Either way, he was glad for it.

  
It had taken less than a minute to pick the lock on her door and he and John had settled onto the sofa to wait for her in silence, leaving the door slightly ajar on purpose.

  
Tension hung in the air between them like a thick curtain and Sherlock felt as if he were watching a set of scales hanging in a precarious balance, wondering in which direction they were going to tip. If it wasn't for the handcuffs holding them together, he would be pacing the room, trying to get some distance between him and John. Being so close to him yet seemingly miles away was torture of a kind even Sherlock hadn't experienced before and he did not like it one bit.

  
He wanted to turn around, to face John and all that lay between them, but he didn't dare for fear of what he might find in John's expression.

  
It soon became clear that his best friend was in no better state of mind, as evidenced by the way he unconsciously started to mirror Sherlock by tapping his fingers on his knee, the rest of his body unmoving, staring straight ahead and not uttering a word.

  
Finally, when the tension was threatening to become too much to endure, the sound of footsteps out in the hall broke the silence. Heels clicked on the floor, slowing as their owner reached the flat and noticed that the door stood slightly ajar. An intelligent person would have backed off and called the police, but Sherlock had considered and discarded that possibility in one go. Kitty Riley was an investigative journalist, she would walk right in. A moment later, she proved his theory by doing just that, switching on the light and visibly starting as she saw them.

  
Sherlock gave her a cold look. "Too late to go on the record?"

  
*****

  
They had just liberated one of Miss Riley's hairpins to pick the locks on their handcuffs and started a rather hostile conversation on the topic of reliable sources of information when the door opened and the entire game changed.

  
Moriarty didn't look like a man who had ever even seen a Westwood suit, much less worn one while threatening to kill them both, but Sherlock had to give him that - he was doing one hell of a job pretending to be scared shitless and utterly harmless. Both couldn't be further from the truth, of course, but the more "Richard Brook" and Kitty Riley talked, the more obvious Moriarty's plan got.

  
It was ingenious, actually.

  
A hired actor to play the part of the big bad villain while Sherlock was the one actually behind the crimes he solved so spectacularly. Yes, he could appreciate the brilliance behind that idea. There was just enough truth about him in the things Miss Riley had already written to make people believe the lies that made up the rest of the article.

  
_'Yes'_ , Sherlock mused. _'This will suffice quite nicely to destroy my career and make everyone believe I am the villain here. Well done.'_

  
But it was not Moriarty's masterful plan that held his interest now - it was John.

  
John, who had come to the same conclusion he had, and who was absolutely furious. There wasn't a moment of hesitation, not a single suspicious glance in Sherlock's direction. John did not doubt him for a second. Instead, he went straight for Moriarty, as angry as Sherlock had ever seen him.

  
It was a relief to witness yet another display of unfaltering loyalty tonight of all nights, and Sherlock fervently wished he had not pulled away earlier. If only they had stayed in that alley so he could have shown John just how much his trust meant to him. Maybe there would be a chance to do so later...

  
_'Idiot, do you intend to make this even worse than it's already going to be?,'_ the Mycroft in his mind palace sneered at him. Sherlock scowled and firmly shut the door in his brother's imaginary face, turning his attention back to Moriarty who had decided that the best option was to run for the hills. He couldn't blame him for that - anyone who found himself facing John Watson with that particular look in his eyes and didn't run like hell certainly had a death wish.

  
They both ran up the stairs after him, but by the time they managed to get the door open, Moriarty had already left through the window. "Let him go," he told John and they turned to leave.

  
Kitty blocked Sherlock's way on the steps, looking up at him with malicious glee in her eyes as he squeezed past her.

  
"D'you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can _read_ you."

  
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to let her say her piece. Maybe she'd feel better for it and he had learned a long time ago not to let the opinions of other people get to him.

  
"And you ... repel ... me."

  
He gave her a bland look, not at all impressed with her petty use of his own words, and made for the door. John roughly shouldered Kitty out of his way as he descended the stairs - a very ungentleman-like behaviour that spoke volumes about where his priorities lay.

  
Once out on the street, John turned to him with fear in his eyes. "Can he do that? Completely change his identity; make you the criminal?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "He's got my whole life story." _'Or what he thinks is my whole life story'._ "That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

  
He and Mycroft had certainly done their best to give Moriarty his chance.

  
John remained stubborn. "Your word against his."

  
"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours," Sherlock reminded him. "There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to ..."

  
He broke off, understanding dawning. Of course. There was exactly one thing missing that would complete the story. Moriarty's words from the night at the pool came back to him. _"I'm going to kill you eventually."_

  
"Sherlock?," John asked, dragging him from his thoughts.

  
"Something I need to do," he said, only peripherally aware of his friend's presence. All his attention was turned inward, to the churning maelstrom of his thoughts.

  
"What? Can I help?"

  
He shook his head slowly, blinking the cobwebs from his mind. "No - on my own."

  
Sherlock turned and walked away before John got a chance to say anything else or, worse, decide to follow him. It was important to do this alone, John mustn't know. Not now, not ever. He followed the detailed map in his mind, making use of dark alleys and flat rooftops as he picked his way from his current location to his next destination - a place he knew he was unlikely to leave anytime soon.

  
*****

 

St. Bart's hospital was dark and mostly empty. It was no challenge to slip by unnoticed and enter the lab without anyone the wiser. Lestrade clearly wasn't making much of an effort to find him - everyone knew this was one of his favourite haunts, yet there was no police anywhere nearby.

  
Still, he didn't switch on the light, choosing to hide in the shadows as he waited. He knew the work schedule, of course, and was very aware of when exactly her shifts were scheduled.

  
Predictably, she walked through the lab on her way out mere minutes later. He didn't even have to look at her direction, his gaze focused on the dark lab itself, remembering all the hours he had spent here with John. Molly took no notice of him and reached for the door without a clue that he was there.

  
Sherlock chose that moment to speak. "You're wrong, you know."

  
Her reaction would have been amusing if he hadn't felt so far from laughing, that little gasp and jump before she spun around to face him.

  
He continued, unperturbed by her reaction. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Finally, he turned to look at her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

  
And it felt so good to finally admit it, to confess that yes, he was hurting and no, he wasn't all right.

  
Molly, bless her, didn't bother with any melodramatics. "Tell me what's wrong."

  
He slowly approached her, steeling himself for the inevitable truth. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

  
She blinked, but otherwise didn't react at all. Where he had expected hysterics or tears or ... anything, really, Molly chose to reveal the inner strength that allowed her to work in the job she had chosen. "What do you need?"

  
He ignored her question but continued walking closer. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am - everything that _I_ think I am - would you still want to help me?"

  
Not that he was going to tell her anything about his true nature, of course. But she was the crux of the matter - the entire plan he and Mycroft had come up with stood and fell with Molly, even if she didn't know it. Of course, there was a chance that Mycroft could hustle up someone else to assist, but Sherlock would prefer to have Molly.

  
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her expression stubborn. "What do you need?"

  
He was well in her space now, mere inches away from her, and he could see the effect his presence had on her - she was trembling, a reaction that only intensified when he replied: "You."

  
Obviously that required some elaboration, but once he had sworn Molly to secrecy and explained the facts, she was ready to help.

  
However, there was one detail she wasn't at all happy with.

  
"You won't tell him?"

  
Sherlock flinched and glared at her. "No. And neither will you. Please, Molly. This is already hard enough, I can't risk dragging him even deeper into it."

  
"Don't you think that's his decision?," she insisted stubbornly. "It's his own life, you know."

  
_'It's so much more than that,'_ he thought, but what he said was: "Yes. And I won't let him risk it in such a fashion. Not for this." He swallowed. "Not for me."

  
He knew by now that John wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice himself and he couldn't allow it. The very idea made him balk and bile rise in his throat. He shook his head.

  
Something in his face must have betrayed his thoughts because Molly subsided with a sad smile and actually reached out to pat his arm - she had never before dared to initiate any form of contact with him. "We'll keep him safe for you, then," she assured him.

  
Sherlock had never felt so grateful to her as he did in that moment. He opened his mouth to actually say so, but the ring of his mobile phone interrupted before he could get a single word out. Maybe that was for the best.

  
Sighing, he pulled the device from his pocket, one glance confirming his suspicions about the caller's identity. "What?"

  
"I just had a most interesting conversation with John."

  
He frowned. "You arranged a meeting?" That didn't seem very likely. Unless ...

  
"He came to me," Mycroft confirmed. "He saw the information about your life, knew he wasn't the one who betrayed your confidence, and came to me."

  
"Naturally," Sherlock said. John was a soldier, he didn't bother with harbouring suspicions and waiting for a day when he could make use of them. When he thought something was amiss, he immediately went for a confrontation. Mycroft, who operated on entirely different levels where what you knew about the other players and what you threatened to do with that knowledge was far more important than what you actually did, would not have expected such a straightforward reaction.

  
"What did you tell him?"

  
"The truth, of course," his brother said, sighing. "That we captured Moriarty some time ago, interrogated him on his network, and that I fed him information about you to make him talk."

  
"Fair enough," Sherlock allowed. "Anything else?"

  
"He does appear very protective of you," Mycroft commented, an odd note in his voice. "He was quite furious with me. I believe he was actually contemplating violence as a valid option."

  
It was impossible not to smile and Sherlock felt something tighten in his throat. _'Oh John'_.

  
"You do frequently inspire an urge to punch you in the face," he said dryly.

  
He could practically hear Mycroft raising his eyebrow. "Indeed? So far I have only heard that said about you, brother mine."

  
"There has to be _some_ family resemblance," Sherlock told him snidely.

  
"Be that the case or not, I thought it prudent to keep you informed," his brother replied. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

  
"Yes?"

  
"Do put all of us out of your misery and take a chance, will you?"

  
He hung up before Sherlock had time to respond, which of course was the point.

  
Sighing, he lowered the hand holding the phone and looked around the lab, blinking in surprise when he found he was alone. Molly had left while he was talking to Mycroft, probably already doing what he had asked her to do. If he ever found a way to do so, he would put in a good word for her, that much was for sure. If there was no other way, he would ask Mycroft to do it.

  
A glance at the clock told him it was close to sunrise already. Time was running out.

  
He adjusted his hold on his phone and typed out a quick text message to John. Once he had hit send, he dialed a number from memory.

  
"Yes?," a throaty voice answered after the first ring.

  
"I need someone to call the following number in four hours exactly." He relayed the number, then repeated it again to make sure the person on the other end had gotten it right. "Ask for John Watson. Identify yourself as a paramedic and inform him that Mrs Hudson has been shot and may not survive. Did you get that?"

  
"Sure did."

  
"Good," he said. "Payment will be made in the usual way."

  
He hung up, pocketed his phone and reached for his coat, fishing out the squash ball he had acquired on a short detour on his way here.

  
Settling onto the floor with his back to the workbench, he bounced the ball on the floor and wall, letting it jump back into his hand over and over as he went over the plan in his head once more. It would not be easy to pull off and the worst part was the one immediately before him - facing John.

  
He didn't have long to wait. John must have already been on his way when he got the text, probably realising that this was where Sherlock would seek refuge. "Got your message," he said.

  
Sherlock caught the ball and kept it in his hand. It wouldn't do to let John look at it for too long, lest he start wondering what the hell he was doing with a squash ball.

  
Time for a distraction. "The computer code is the key to this. If we find it, we can use it - beat Moriarty at his own game."

  
John frowned, taking the bait. "What do you mean, 'use it'?"

  
Sherlock gave him a look. "He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook." And wasn't that an interesting name? Funny no one else had noticed.

  
"And bring back Jim Moriarty again," John concluded, nodding in understanding. There was hope in his voice and it felt like a punch in the chest to Sherlock. There was no hope left for him.

  
He stood. "Somewhere in 221b, somewhere - on the day of the verdict - he left it hidden."

  
There, that should get John thinking, now all he had to do was act along, pretend he was just as in the dark as his friend was. The corners of his mouth turned upwards by the tiniest fraction when he noticed that John was unconsciously mimicking his stance, both hands on the work surface of the bench as they stood side by side.

  
"What did he touch?," John asked.

  
He had been prepared for that question. "An apple. Nothing else."

  
He drummed his fingers on the bench, then stopped as he noticed what he was doing. If John, by some weird coincidence, worked it out, he would be forced to explain the whole thing to him and then everything would fall apart.

  
Thankfully, John was still pursuing his own line of thought. "Did he write anything down?"

  
"No."

  
John hissed and looked away. His body proved far more attentive than his conscious mind as his fingers began to drum on the bench. After a moment, he walked across the lab, apparently too tense to stay still for long. Sherlock knew the feeling well.

  
His brain, always attuned to John's actions, latched onto something and he paused, replaying Moriarty's visit in his mind. That rhythm ... it was too rhythmic to be mindless movement of the fingers. Up to now, he had thought it was Moriarty's idea of a joke, but now something else occurred - maybe there was indeed a code. Truth wrapped inside a lie. Binary code, most likely. But, no, that didn't sound right, either ... he would keep it in mind, if only to annoy Moriarty.

  
He straightened and turned his back on John, fishing his phone out of his pocket and typing a new message. Time to get the ball rolling.

 

>   
>  _Come and play._  
>  _Bart's Hospital rooftop._  
>  _SH_

  
He paused for a moment, then added:

 

>   
>  _PS. Got something_  
>  _of yours you might_  
>  _want back._

  
He hit 'send' and tucked the phone away, thoughtfully staring into nothingness as he wondered if he would get to see another sunrise after today.

  
Behind him, John had apparently given up on trying to find an answer, his exhaustion finally catching up with him as he fell asleep on a stool at a nearby bench with his head on his folded arms. Sherlock watched him for a while, committing every single detail about his features to memory. He looked relaxed and years younger in his sleep, but even oblivion could not erase his worry completely - the small crease between his eyes remained, proof that their current situation troubled even his unconscious mind. Sherlock wanted to reach out and press his fingers to the wrinkled skin, ease the frown away with nothing but a touch.

  
_'This is what you could have woken up to every morning if you weren't such a coward,'_ a voice in his mind told him and he bit back a pained gasp. Now was not the time to entertain such thoughts. He could not give in, not now.

  
Reluctantly turning away, he settled on another chair and put his feet up on the bench. Idly, he started rolling the squash ball from side to side, trying hard to focus on John's steady presence. It would not do to worry about what was to come, much like it would not do to think about Mycroft's words. _"Take a chance,"_ his brother whispered in his mind, but he knew he did not dare.

  
Hours passed as he sat there, forced to remain inactive as his mind raced ahead to the coming hours and back over the past eighteen months. He wondered if he would do things differently if given the chance to turn back time. Would he still keep his distance from John if he knew what he knew now? Namely, that the very thought of separating from him made him sick to his stomach?

  
Finally, John's phone rang, rousing him from sleep, and Sherlock's heart sank as he answered.

  
"Yeah, speaking."

  
There was a moment of silence as the person on the other end spoke.

  
"Er, what?," John asked, staggering to his feet. "What happened? Is she okay?"

  
Another pause. Sherlock closed his eyes in resignation, steeling himself for what he knew he must do.

  
"Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming," John said, and hung up.

  
"What is it?," Sherlock asked, putting everything he had into keeping his voice calm and disinterested.

  
"Paramedics," John told him, sounding dazed. "Mrs Hudson - she's been shot."

  
He added a bit of surprise to his voice. "What? How?"

  
"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ...," John told him, sounding frantic as he got over the first stage of shock. "Jesus. _Jesus_. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

  
He turned towards the door and Sherlock took a breath, steeling himself once more for what he had to do. "You go. I'm busy."

  
The appalled look on John's face was like a knife to the stomach. "Busy?"

  
"Thinking," he explained patiently. "I need to think." _'I need you to leave. I need you to be safe.'_

  
"You need to ...? Doesn't she mean anything to you?" John was getting angry now. This was far too easy. Almost painfully so. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

  
That was certainly true, and he would do it again, but now he could do nothing but shrug. "She's my landlady." _'She's the first person to have been kind to me in this century.'_

  
And John was truly furious now, he could hear his laboured breathing from across the room.

  
"She's dying ...," John said, flailing his hand about in disbelief. "You _machine_."

  
That hurt and it took all his concentration to suppress a flinch.

  
"Sod this," John muttered as he turned toward the door. "Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."

  
Sherlock let out a slow breath. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." _'Alone keeps you safe.'_

  
John opened the door with far more force than necessary. "No. _Friends_ protect people."

  
He stormed off without another word and Sherlock finally dared to lift his gaze towards the door, staring at the empty space where his best friend had just been. _'And I'm protecting you.'_ A shudder worked its way through his body as he firmly told himself it had been necessary. He couldn't bear it if John somehow got caught in the middle of this, collateral damage of Sherlock's war against Moriarty.

  
As if on cue, his phone chimed with a text alert. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

 

>   
>  _I'm waiting..._  
>  _JM_

  
Sherlock took his feet off the bench and stood, crossing the room. He picked up his coat and walked out the door, keeping the squash ball firmly in his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your comments and kudos. Next time: the scene that triggered this entire story and more angst.


	20. Part 4 - Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you! Here, have some angst and the scene that triggered this whole story.

**Chapter 4**

 

The sun had gone up, dousing London in early morning light as Sherlock stepped out onto the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. It seemed wrong, this oddly peaceful atmosphere created by the slowly waking city, a stark contrast to the drama unfolding high above the pedestrians on their way to work.

  
Moriarty was sitting on the raised ledge on the edge of the building, the phone in his hand blasting "Stayin' Alive" at top volume. The irony wasn't lost on Sherlock. There was a huge chance neither of them would be staying alive for much longer. Moriarty didn't look at him as he approached.

  
"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem," he said, raising his phone. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?," he asked, switching the phone off with a flare of anger.

  
Sherlock felt an answering flare of fury himself, but felt his was more justified. What did this man know about staying alive and boredom? He had not even lived four decades, as opposed to the more than two millennia of Sherlock's existence. _'You know nothing.'_

  
Moriarty, of course, did not notice his anger and continued his monologue. "It's just ... staying." He buried his face in his hand, looking defeated. Sherlock thought he might have profited from heavy-duty medication. He started pacing, waiting for the consulting criminal to get to the point.

  
"All my life I've been searching distractions," Jim told him, his words an odd echo of Sherlock's own predicament. "You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

  
_'You're a sore winner,'_ Sherlock thought, surprised. _'You'll find you have lost soon enough. That should cheer you up.'_ He fought to look affronted, hiding the flash of triumph he felt. This was shaping up to be easier than he had expected.

  
Moriarty, completely ignorant of his opponent's thoughts, continued. "And you know what? In the end it was easy-"

  
_'My brother and I did everything we could to help you along,'_ Sherlock thought uncharitably. _'Can't get any easier than that.'_

  
"It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them."

  
_'Wrong.'_ Good lord, was there anything this man had gotten right about him? In the end, it seemed Moriarty was the ordinary one - blind to all that made Sherlock Sherlock, unable to see what John had grasped immediately: That Sherlock Holmes was anything but ordinary.

  
"Ah well," Moriarty got up, easily discarding his gloomy mood in favour of seeking affirmation. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

  
Sherlock decided to give him kudos for saying 'nearly' because obviously the answer was 'no'.

  
"Richard Brook," he simply said.

  
Jim smiled. "Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

  
"Of course." It had been so painfully obvious. "Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach - the case that made my name." The newspapers had certainly gone to town with it.

  
He calculated the time that had passed since John had left the lab, adding the time it would take him to arrive at Baker Street, find Mrs Hudson alive and well, realise what was going on, and hurry back. Not long enough. He needed to distract Moriarty, buy some time.

  
Sherlock started beating his fingers behind his back as his opponent circled him.

  
"Good," Moriarty said, falling for the distraction. "You got that, too."

  
"Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code." It was almost fun to see Jim struggle to hide his glee about how wrong he was. "That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head. A few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

  
The part about the assassins, at least, was true. It was the only reason they would have bothered.

  
Jim sounded far too satisfied with himself. "I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

  
Time to take that satisfaction and turn it into frustration. Sherlock hated playing stupid but it always brought excellent results. He gestured at his head. "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the recods. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

  
He fought not to smile as Jim's face fell in obvious disappointment. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy!"

  
The criminal buried his head in his hands, muffling his voice. "This is too easy."

  
He lowered his hands.

  
"There is no key, DOOFUS!" He all but screamed the last word into Sherlock's face. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."

  
Sherlock allowed some of his confusion to show. Completely meaningless? He had been sure there was _some_ meaning behind them, a terrible inside joke at the least, the same as with the name.

  
"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crush the world around our ears?," Jim asked in disbelief. "I'm disappointed."

  
_'Getting closer'_ Sherlock thought.

  
"I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

  
_'Soon...'_ Out loud he said: "But the rhythm..." Because there had to be some meaning there.

  
"Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

  
_'Ha. Thought so. Just one more push...'_ "But then how did..."

  
Jim spread his arms in exasperation and triumph as he finally started talking, prattling on and on about how his accomplices had done all the work while he sat back and manipulated everyone into believing it had been the work of a simple computer code. Sherlock listened and watched the seconds tick by as Moriarty finished his tale.

  
"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

  
Sherlock blinked the ticking clock in his mind away, bewildered. "Do it? Do - do what?"

  
He blinked again, gathering his thoughts, keeping his face impassive as he turned toward Jim. "Yes, of course. My suicide."

  
After all, that was what all this had been about. He had known it would end like that, had come prepared, but that didn't make him like this any better.

  
Moriarty sounded sickeningly matter-of-fact. " _'Genius detective proved to be a fraud'_. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

  
Ignoring him, Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward, looking down to the ground far below. _'Yes,'_ he thought. _'That would certainly do it.'_ After all, he was hardly indestructible. Not anymore.

  
"And pretty Grimm ones, too," Jim continued his train of thought, moving to stand beside him and also looking down. Sherlock wondered if maybe he should just push him over and be done with it. He didn't dare, though. Moriarty had to have something up his sleeve and if so, he needed to know what it was.

  
"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity," he pointed out. _'I need more time.'_

  
"Oh, just kill yourself," Jim said, exasperated. "It's a lot less effort."

  
_'If only you knew.'_ Sherlock thought of his overdose and the time a Chinese assassin had tried to choke him to death, and wondered if a fall from this height might be enough to kill him or if he would end up alive with every bone in his body shattered. The pain would certainly be near intolerable, even by his standards.

  
"Go on. For me," Moriarty encouraged him, his voice a high-pitched squeal, like a child's in front of the chocolate bars at the supermarket as he continued. "Pleeeeeeease?"

  
Fed up with the constant chatter, he grabbed the collar of Moriarty's coat with both hands and spun him around, shoving him closer to the edge. That garnered him a mildly interested look.

  
"You're insane," he spat, watching as Jim blinked in surprise.

  
"You're just getting that now?"

  
_'No, but I did not think it was quite this bad.'_ He shoved him further back, holding him over the edge. The urge to let go was sheer impossible to fight and Jim whooped, holding his hands out as if he couldn't wait to be shoved off the roof. That was probably the case.

  
"Okay," he said. "Let me give you a little extra incentive."

  
_'Ah. There we have it. What do you have up your sleeve, then?'_

  
"Your friends will die if you don't." His voice was as savage as the words he spoke.

  
It was impossible not to react to that, utterly impossible not to feel the fear creeping up his spine as all his thoughts turned to the man he had sent away. "John."

  
"Not just John." Moriarty lowered his voice. "Everyone."

  
Oh, he was good. "Mrs Hudson."

  
Jim looked delighted. "Everyone," he repeated.

  
Sherlock swallowed. "Lestrade."

  
"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now," Moriarty informed him. Furiously, Sherlock pulled him back from the edge and he finished his sentence: "Unless my people see you jump."

  
It was brilliant and horrible all at once and Sherlock didn't feel at all comforted by the fact that he had seen it coming. John, yes, that one had been obvious. Moriarty had already used their friendship against them, of course he would not hesitate to do so again. But Mrs Hudson and Lestrade ... the consulting criminal knew him better than Sherlock had thought.

  
But most of his horror did not stem from the thought of the danger his friends were in, but from the fact that _an ordinary human_ had come up with this plan. If Moriarty had been a demon, it would be so much easier - and far more logical - to expect true evil of him. Most humans, for all their faults, did not have the mental and amoral capacity for it.

  
Moriarty gave him a triumphant smile, having freed himself from Sherlock's grasp. "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

  
"... unless I kill myself," Sherlock finished calmly. "Complete your story."

  
Jim nodded, his smile ecstatic. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

  
He had no idea what his face betrayed as the inevitability of his fate settled around him. It was one thing to think about it in the abstract, as a future event, but quite another to find himself facing it in terms of the immediate future. "And I die in disgrace."

  
He almost laughed as he realised how true his words were. He was a Fallen. It did not matter how or when he died - it would always be in disgrace by sheer definition.

  
"Of course," Jim agreed. "That's the _point_ of this."

  
He looked over the edge again. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on."

  
Deciding to humour him for a bit, Sherlock stepped past him and onto the ledge.

  
"I told you how it ends," Jim pointed out from behind him.

  
Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. There was no sign of John down there. Shit. He needed to buy more time, somehow, anyhow ...

  
"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it," Moriarty said.

  
Sherlock gave in. There was only one thing to do and that was relinquish his pride.

  
"Would you give me ... one moment, please, one moment of privacy?"

  
He glanced down at his enemy. "Please?"

  
"Of course," Moriarty said, looking torn between pleasure at having won and disappointment at Sherlock's being so ordinary.

  
Sherlock could hear him walk away a couple of paces, then tuned him out as his attention focused inwards. There had to be some way to keep Moriarty occupied for a little longer, draw out the inevitable ...

  
Something inside his mind went click and he almost fell off the roof in sheer surprise as another avenue suddenly opened to him. Maybe it wouldn't come to this, maybe he and Mycroft had overestimated Moriarty ... maybe there was a way to end this without his almost certain death.

  
Hope bloomed in his chest and he started to chuckle despite himself. The sound of Jim's footsteps stopped, and Sherlock laughed.

  
"What?," Moriarty demanded, spinning around. "What is it?"

  
Sherlock half turned, smiling at him in utter enjoyment of Moriarty's glare.

  
"What did I miss?"

  
With a predatory smirk, he jumped off the ledge and walked towards him. "You're not going to do it," he quoted. "So the killers can be called off, then - there's a recall code or a word or a number."

  
He started circling Moriarty, feeling the rush of approaching victory. "I don't have to die if I've got you."

  
"Oh!" Jim's laugh was full of relief and delight. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

  
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, relentless in his circling. "So do you."

  
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to," Moriarty told him.

  
And therein lay the crux of the matter. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" Far from it, in fact. Mycroft was incapable of making Moriarty do anything by virtue of his nature. "I am you - prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

  
_'And if this goes wrong, I very well might end up burning in hell for real.'_

  
Jim slowly shook his head. "Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary - you're on the side of the angels."

  
The words were a shock and Sherlock had to fight not to betray his sudden doubt. Had he miscalculated? Did Jim, of all people, have the Sight? Did Moriarty know what he was? But no, there was no hint of a deeper knowledge. If Moriarty was aware of his status, he'd be using it against him.

  
Time to make him believe, then. There was only one way to do that: by telling the absolute truth.

  
"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that _I am one of them_."

  
It was a technicality, but one he was prepared to hide behind. And the absolute conviction in his voice was more than enough to sway Moriarty, who was staring intently into his eyes, trying to deduce how far he was willing to go.

  
"No, you're not."

  
The agreement was quiet and he closed his eyes briefly. Sherlock did the same to hide his relief. When Jim opened his eyes again, he was smiling.

  
"I see," he said softly. "You're not ordinary. No. You're me."

  
He laughed, his voice rising in pitch. "You're me! Thank you!"

  
For a moment, Sherlock thought the lunatic was actually going to embrace him in his incomprehensible joy, but then he merely offered his hand to shake. "Sherlock Holmes."

  
Slowly, he raised his own hand and took Moriarty's.

  
Jim was nodding jerkily, as though his head might fall off any moment. "Thank you. Bless you."

  
Was he actually blinking away tears?

  
"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out."

  
On the surface, that was true, but something about Moriarty's tone made Sherlock suspicious. A moment later, that suspicion turned to horror.

  
"Well, good luck with that," the consulting criminal said, and - with a manic grin - he opened his mouth, drew a gun with his free hand and shoved the muzzle into his mouth. Sherlock reared back in shock just as Moriarty pulled the trigger, blowing his brains out - and destroying any chance Sherlock might have had at defeating him.

  
Bile churned in his stomach and he had to step away from the body, his eyes locked on Moriarty's fixed grin even as he covered his mouth with his sleeve. To an angel, suicide was always a sad thing, though neither Heaven nor Hell actually cared all that much. This one, in all its pointlessness, was even worse. Sherlock, as a Fallen, did not feel the impact of it so much as for example Mycroft would have, had he been present, but it was bad enough.

  
Adding to that source of distress was the fact that there was no way out of the trap Moriarty had set up for him anymore. Knowing that every moment he spent standing around here, doing nothing, was another moment where the snipers could lose their patience, he made a conscious effort to slow his breathing and returned onto the ledge.

  
Down below, a cab pulled up and his breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of John exiting the vehicle. With a shaking hand, he pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. Below him, John raised his own phone to his ear, walking towards the hospital.

  
"Hello?"

  
Oh God, it was so good to hear his voice. Frantically, Sherlock's gaze searched the immediate area for potential snipers, but there was no way to tell from where the shot might come if he didn't do what Moriarty had wanted.

  
"John."

  
"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

  
There was forgiveness in that voice - now that he knew Mrs Hudson was unharmed, John could overlook Sherlock's behaviour in the lab. A small mercy, at least.

  
Hating himself for what he had to do, he drew a breath. "Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

  
"No, I'm coming in." Of course John would choose that moment to be stubborn.

  
"Just do as I ask. Please."

  
Something in his tone, coupled with his use of the word 'please', stopped John short and he turned around. "Where?"

  
Sherlock wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't come, and he watched in silence as John walked back along the road until he reached the one spot from where he would not have to see the impact of Sherlock's body on the ground. That much at least he could give him.

  
"Stop there," he ordered.

  
Thankfully, John did so. "Sherlock?"

  
"Okay, look up." He could hear his voice shake. "I'm on the rooftop."

  
John turned around and looked up and even from this distance Sherlock could see the horror on his face as he struggled to understand.

  
"Oh God."

  
"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this," Sherlock stammered, feeling his throat tightening in a way he hadn't experienced since he had lost his wings eight years ago.

  
The fear in John's voice wasn't helping either. "What's going on?"

  
"An apology," he said softly, steeling himself for the ultimate lie. "It's all true."

  
"Wh-what?"

  
Oh god, this hurt. "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." He actually had to force the words out of his mouth.

  
Needing a moment to strengthen his resolve, he looked around at the grinning corpse of Moriarty.

  
"Why are you doing this?," John asked.

  
_'I wish I could tell you the truth,'_ Sherlock thought, turning back to him.

  
"I'm a fake." His voice broke on the last word. Pathetic.

  
"Sherlock ..."

  
The sound of his name was the last straw and he felt his eyes fill with tears. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

  
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John ordered, sounding angry and scared. "The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

  
He heaved a breath. "Nobody could be that clever."

  
"You could."

  
The absolute conviction in John's voice was like a punch in the gut but it drew a startled laugh from him all the same. Something inside him unfurled and it took him a moment to recognise the feeling - gratitude.

  
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He sniffed, wishing he had met John years ago. "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." _'I hope it will be.'_

  
"No. All right, stop it now," John ordered, not the least bit convinced. He started to walk towards the hospital entrance.

  
"No, stay _exactly_ where you are!" He almost yelled into the phone. "Don't move."

  
John stopped and backed up a step, holding up a placating hand. "All right."

  
Without knowing why, Sherlock felt himself reaching out toward John with his free hand, wishing there was a way to bridge the distance between them, to touch that beloved face one more time.

  
"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he urged, growing frantic as fear settled in his stomach. "Please, will you do this for me?"

  
"Do what?," John asked, his own voice thick with fear and denial.

  
Oh god, how to explain, how to explain? "This phone call - it's er ... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

  
He knew the exact moment when understanding dawned, saw as John took his phone from his ear as if he could prevent this all from happening just by refusing to have this conversation. Sherlock wished it was possible. Thankfully, John raised his phone again.

  
His voice shook as he spoke. "Leave a note when?" God, he sounded so young.

  
He squared his shoulders. "Goodbye, John."

  
"No. Don't."

  
It was the last thing he heard him say before he severed the connection, dropping his phone onto the roof. An idea formed in his mind, tentative but gaining strength quickly, and moments later his decision was made.

  
He was likely going to die for good in a matter of seconds, even his body could not withstand the force of the impact from such a height. He was doing this to save John, for John alone. The least he could do was satisfy his curiosity on the one question he had never dared to find the answer to before.

  
Down below, John screamed something that might have been his name, but the sound was distorted by the wind and Sherlock wasn't paying attention anymore, his gaze fixed on the small figure on the pavement as he finally, _finally,_ allowed himself to _see_.

  
He spread his arms and threw himself forward with all his might, for the first time in eight years absolutely certain that he was doing the right thing. Just this once, he was doing exactly what he was meant to do.

  
There was nothing but air all around him, the wind tousling his hair, and he felt as if he were flying once more - an illusion even cocaine had never been able to create so accurately. And as the ground rushed towards him, he felt no fear and no regret.

  
There was only certainty.


	21. Part 5 - Chapter 1

**Part V**

 

 

_“But to mourn, that's different. To mourn is to be eaten alive with homesickness for the person.”_  
_― Olive Ann Burns_

 

  
**Chapter 1**

 

The sun was shining on the day of the funeral.

  
There was not a single cloud to be seen, not even a teeny tiny one. John felt as if the sky itself was mocking him by giving him perfect weather when all he wanted was heavy rain and dark clouds. They would suit his mood far better, for one thing, and for another would also at least give the impression that the world was weeping over the loss of one of its brightest minds. It should.

  
He sat in the front row during the small ceremony, his gaze fixed on the coffin only four feet away from him. He had no idea what his expression was like, but was reasonably sure he wasn't crying. That was probably because someone had given him a sedative. There was certainly no other reason why he managed to stay upright when all he wanted was to crumble into a heap on the ground and scream in agony.

  
Or maybe not. He wasn't sure. Maybe what he actually wanted was to crawl across the four feet of marble floor, claw open the coffin and fling himself inside, to be buried along with the one man who had in so many ways become his life.

  
John had no idea how many days had passed since Sher- since the Thing.

  
The Thing. That was his name for what had happened on that day. Even in his own thoughts he refused to label it a suicide and part of him was sure it had been murder. People - Lestrade, Mycroft, even Mrs Hudson - argued that Sherlock had been alone up there, that he had clearly chosen to do what he had done. But John refused to listen. When he had first met the brilliant detective, they had solved the case of a serial killer who forced his victims into suicide, after all.

  
No, whatever had happened on that roof, John would never accept that Sherlock had thrown his life away out of despair over his destroyed reputation. The man had an ego the size of England, he simply wouldn't do such a thing, no matter how many key codes Moriarty possessed.

  
Speaking of, there had been no trace of the consulting criminal anywhere, but John was sure he had to be involved somehow.

  
However, being sure of something no longer resulted in appropriate action. Instead, all it meant was that he was dully aware of the facts in some small corner of his mind, while the rest of him was frozen in shock, unable to comprehend the way his life had fallen apart around him and turned to dust.

  
Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, before he had met Sherlock, he had contemplated suicide as a plausible option to escape the meaningless life he led. Now, he would have laughed at his past self's stupidity, if laughing had not somehow become beyond his abilities. Now, he knew what it felt like to merely exist instead of living, to wish for it all to end just so he would no longer have to face a world without Sherlock Holmes in it.

  
Perhaps it was not surprising that Mycroft, of all people, had personally searched the flat from top to bottom and confiscated absolutely anything that could in some way be turned into a suitable weapon, before having heavy-duty surveillance equipement installed and two of his people stationed in a flat right across the street at all times.

  
John hated him for that.

  
Or rather, he would have liked to, but he simply didn't have the energy to feel anything at all.

  
So he sat in the front pew of the church, thinking that Sherlock would have scorned the religious aspect of the entire ceremony and complained about the lack of logic in the Bible. He thought of how, if Sherlock was there, he'd shove his elbow into his ribs to get him to shut up about it.

  
But he wasn't and John didn't. So he sat alone and he let the priest drone on and he felt nothing.

  
*****

 

The world was a strange place, full of sounds and smells to be explored, with strange colours and an odd change in temperatures.

  
He breathed deeply as he approached his goal. He knew he was getting closer though he had never smelled him before. The scent was ingrained in his mind, along with a simple order. He followed where it led, past large slabs of rock with holes in them that humans inhabited, past oblivious humans who neither saw nor heard him pass, and past trees and bushes. His paws left no imprints on hard man-made ground and soft earth alike.

  
He found the Master in another large man-cave. It was high and the inside was cool and smelled of wax and wood and stone and people and incense. He did not like it in here, but the Master was there and he must find the Master.

  
There were humans there, but not many. One stood apart from the group, their attention on him and the hollow piece of tree behind him. There were flowers on it that did not match the tree - nature would never allow these two to grow in the same place. The combination of scents was confusing.

  
He found the Master in the front row of people, his scent easily recognisable among the rest. There was something else there, _something_ ... his head swivelled around and he stared at another being. _Not human. Dangerous_? Another whiff of air. _No. Ally._ Smelled of feathers and air and honey and age and power.

  
He met the Angel's eyes, baring his teeth. _Do not interfere._ The Angel held his gaze for a moment, then gave the tiniest of nods. An acknowledgement of shared intentions.

  
Turning away, he approached the Master, comparing his scent - herbs, wool, hot sand, potential - to the one in his head. There was another layer there, emotions drawing bright slashes of colour across the soft gold glow of his scent. Black and blue and a bright slash of red that hurt his nose. The Master was sad - so very, very sad.

  
An instinct rose in him, long-forgotten but still valid, still strong. He pressed his head against the Master's leg, offering comfort. _Why are you sad, Master? Why does a hollow, empty piece of wood make you want to howl?_

  
The Master did not respond. The Master did not pet him. The Master did not know he was there.

  
That was fine, he had known that. Instincts were difficult to suppress at the best of times. He wished the Master would see him, feel his presence. He wished he could make the Master feel better.

  
He sat beside him for a while, as the man in the front with the long robes talked on and on about death and life and God. He ignored the man and looked around for threats, snuffling at the ground or the Master's leg to cement his scent in his mind.

  
There were souls here, old souls, lost souls, sad souls. Souls who did not belong here, who should have gone on long ago. He twitched, fighting the urge to find them and herd them to the place they belonged.

  
_Must not leave the Master._ The order was clear in his head and he obeyed without question. The souls had been here for a long time. They were not going anywhere. But the Master was sad and alive, and the Master needed him, even if he did not know it.

  
The order was clear and he settled down, putting his nose on the Master's right foot.

  
_Protect._

  
*****

 

"You cannot stay in here forever."

  
"Go away."

  
"I know you are already aware of the facts. Staying holed up in here like some ... some _angst-ridden teenager_ will not help."

  
"I _said_ go away."

  
A sigh. "Sherlock, please open the door."

  
"Or what?"

  
"Or I will honour your wish and walk away-"

  
"Sounds good to m-"

  
"-without telling you about what happened at the service."

  
There were several seconds of silence before the key turned in the lock. He waited, but when nothing else happened, he took that as an invitation to enter and opened the door, closing it behind him once he had stepped into the room.

  
Sherlock was curled up on the window seat overlooking the garden, but Mycroft doubted his brother even knew what the view outside actually looked like, for all that he had barely moved from this spot in days.

  
Since clearly no invitation to sit would be forthcoming, Mycroft approached the window and lowered himself into the armchair closest to it.

  
"If I may say so, brother, you look like an absolute wreck."

  
It was true, as far as observations went. Sherlock hadn't bothered to shower or even wash his face since he had wiped the blood off. A change of clothes was definitely in order, as was a shave and quite possibly even a haircut. He clearly hadn't slept in about a week and his eyes were sunken and blood-shot. The dark circles beneath them looked almost like bruises.

  
If that was not enough, the look on his face would have shattered anyone's illusions about his wellbeing.

  
Mycroft prided himself on having never gone for longer than a handful of months without seeing his brother in all the years of their existence. He also prided himself on his excellent memory. Right now, that memory was telling him that he had never seen his brother look quite so distraught before. Not once.

  
It was a difficult situation to be sure, but Mycroft did not understand the way his brother had let himself go. Surely there were upsides to be found in this mess? One of them was practically staring him in the face.

  
"There is no need to look quite so desolate, brother," he said gently.

  
Sherlock slowly turned his head to give him a blank stare. He looked about ready to keel over. "What happened?"

  
"Your John appears to have acquired a new friend of his own," Mycroft told him. "And what a good little doggy he is. Follows him everywhere, it seems."

  
His brother shrugged. "So what? Animals have been proven to be of beneficial impact to people going through ... times of emotional upheaval."

  
The small pause was not lost on Mycroft. "Oh, is that what it is called these days?," he inquired mildly. "At any rate, a pet dog is not quite what I was referring to."

  
Sherlock's eyes widened. "No."

  
"Indeed."

  
They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock thinking and Mycroft watching him think, trying to predict what his likely reaction was going to be. He experienced a rush of relief when Sherlock got up from the window seat in one fluid motion. Sadly, it was short-lived and died a tragic death seconds later when his brother spoke.

  
"I need to see."

  
"Sherlock, we have been over this already. You cannot go near him without risk of him seeing you, no matter how much you may want to."

  
"He won't see me," Sherlock insisted, crossing his arms. "And you don't understand. I said I _need_ to see him. There is no wanting involved."

  
Mycroft didn't bother with a verbal response, simply giving him a look of utter disbelief.

  
His brother sighed and dropped his arms. "Fine. Both, then. Either way, I cannot stay away."

  
_'No'_ Mycroft thought. _'You really can't, can you? Oh brother mine...'_

  
A thought occurred to him then. "Sherlock ... did you by any chance finally dare to take a look?"

  
Even as the words left his mouth, he could already read the answer in his brother's response, though the actual outcome remained a mystery. Blood-shot eyes were a well-known side-effect of daring to look at another person's soul, the sting of rejection like a bright flame. But then again, he had not slept in far too long and expressed a need to see John where so far he had always run for the hills every time he failed to find what he was looking for.

  
Mycroft drew a sharp breath at the logical conclusion. "I ... see."

  
He didn't expect his brother's face to crumble as he sank to the floor where he stood, as if all the strength had left him. "No you don't," he whispered, the words barely audible. Sherlock's voice cracked on the last syllable and for a moment, he looked ready to cry.

  
It was an upsetting sight, wrong on so many levels. Mycroft felt a stirring of something he had not felt in far too long, something that now reared its ugly head without his say-so - sympathy.

  
"I am sorry."

  
"Are you?," Sherlock asked hoarsely, glancing up at him. His face twisted with anger. "Do you even remember what 'sorry' feels like?"

  
The question was valid, it should not have stung so much. "Yes, of course."

  
"Tell me, Mycroft, when was the last time you felt anything, really felt it?"

  
The truth was that he did not know. In his job, sentiment was something best left ignored. He did experience emotions, of course, but they were usually in a very controlled range and only concern for Sherlock had ever registered on a deeper level.

  
"I thought so," Sherlock said, nodding as if Mycroft had spoken out loud. "That, brother dear, is the difference between us. The Fallen are subjected to all the unfiltered sentiment any common human may experience. To us, everything is tainted with emotion."

  
There was one word in particular that stood out in his speech. "Us?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "I will always be a Fallen in the eyes of our brethren, Mycroft." He grimaced. "Sherlock Holmes, the Angel who fell."

  
"Not far enough," Mycroft felt compelled to point out.

  
"No," his brother agreed softly. "Not far enough. But now it feels as if I fell further than anyone else ever did."

  
*****

 

Two days after his conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock had finally managed to clean himself up and left his brother's house, utterly ignoring all his feeble protests. The cemetery was not too far and offered more than enough hiding places within earshot of his empty grave. He got into position just as John and Mrs Hudson arrived, his own arrival perfectly timed thanks to his brother's intelligence network.

  
John was too pale, he could see that even from this distance. Too pale and too tired and looking like he hadn't eaten properly in a while. It made him want to step forward, grasp his arm and drag him off to Angelo's. Instead, he remained where he was, taking in everything.

  
Mrs Hudson looked frail and fragile and sad - he had not expected her to be quite so sad. He felt an odd pang in his chest at the sight. She had even brought flowers with her, good soul that she was. The feeling intensified and he finally identified it as guilt and longing.

  
In search of a distraction from this odd development, he looked around for John's companion. He didn't have to look far - it was already heading his way, looking wary but not aggressive.

  
The Hell Hound circled him once, sniffing at his coat and - when he offered it - his hand, before giving a small whine and turning back to where John stood. After a couple of steps, the Hound turned and looked back at him, an unspoken question in his ancient gaze.

  
He shook his head. Much as he wished, he could not follow.

  
Thankfully, Mrs Hudson chose that moment to speak, distracting him from the Hell Hound. "There's all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She looked at John. "Would you...?"

  
"I can't go back to the flat again - not at the moment."

  
Hearing John speak was a solid punch to the solar plexus - his voice sounded so brittle, and the words that followed did in no way help. "I'm angry."

  
Mrs Hudson patted his arm. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel."

  
That was probably true, but it still stung.

  
"All the marks on my table; and the noise - firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

  
Oh, that had been a bad night, he remembered. He had been half out of his mind with boredom and the pain in his back had been particularly vicious.

  
"Yeah," John muttered.

  
"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine - keeping bodies where there's food!"

  
"Yes," John said.

  
"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!" Mrs Hudson's rant would have been more believable if she hadn't been fighting back tears, Sherlock thought.

  
John turned to her before she could actually start crying. "Yeah, listen: I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

  
Sherlock blinked. John wasn't angry? But he had just said ...

  
"Okay." Mrs Hudson pulled her arm free of John's. "I'll leave you alone to, erm ... you know."

  
The uncomfortable mix of guilt and longing twisted in Sherlock's stomach as her voice broke again, getting momentarily worse as she walked away, now actually crying.

  
John watched her go, then turned back to the black slab of stone that marked the place where Sherlock was definitely not buried. He found himself wishing he was, though, for the simple fact that he would then be far closer to John than his current position. On the downside, he'd also be unable to do anything about it.

  
"Um ... mmm. You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were human-" _'Well spotted, John.'_ "-but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There."

  
He looked ready to collapse where he stood and Sherlock found himself involuntarily grasping the tree he was hiding behind, just to have something solid to hold on to instead of flinging himself at John's feet and begging for forgiveness. God, he wanted to.

  
And John, dear John, actually stepped forward and touched two fingers to the headstone, as if that would somehow make him feel closer to Sherlock, as if that would somehow help. The Hell Hound whined, pressing himself to John's leg and going entirely unnoticed.

  
"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

  
Sherlock felt as if he couldn't breathe, the denial springing to his lips immediately. _'No John. I was the lonely one. You have no idea how alone I truly was. You owe me nothing and I - I owe you everything.'_ But he did not move and he did not speak and he did not even breathe at all.

  
"Okay," John said, and for a moment Sherlock thought he had accidentally screamed the words across the cemetery. "Okay."

  
John turned and seemed about to leave but then stopped at the foot of the grave, turning back once more, apparently pulling himself together. When he spoke again, each word felt like a knife to the heart. Sherlock had not known that such a level of pain without an actual wound was even possible.

  
"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be ..." His voice broke. "... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it." He waved his arm at the grave. "Stop this."

  
He sighed and lowered his head, looking so terribly broken. Sherlock felt as if he had swallowed glass, the sharp edges and corners piercing him from the inside, making him want to curl up and never move again. Helplessly, he stood and watched as John all but collapsed into himself, weeping openly.

  
When John finally pulled himself together and actually stood to attention, he didn't know whether to be relieved or not. John took the decision away from him by giving one sharp nod, all but dismissing himself before turning on his heel and walking away. Sherlock watched him go and felt something crack deep inside, in a place where only John could ever reach him.

  
He watched John go, fighting to keep his face impassive, and only when the man had disappeared did he whisper: "One more miracle. Just for you. I promise."

  
With that, Sherlock turned and walked away. He did not linger and he did not look back. The fastest way to John was forward.


	22. Part 5 - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all. Here, have some more angst.

**Chapter 2**

 

The bedsit was a sad place, small and colourless and smelling of stale cigarette smoke. It was basically the same as it had been when he had first returned from Afghanistan. Only then it had bothered him, had felt bleak and small and empty, like a cage. Now, he barely noticed his surroundings. The only thing he was conscious of was the stale scent of cigarette smoke. It reminded him of Sherlock.

  
Perhaps it should have faded into the background by now, a scent he didn't even notice anymore, but every time he walked through the door it gave him another pang and he had stopped counting how many times he hadn't even made it to the chair before breaking down all over again.

  
Weeks had passed since he and Mrs Hudson had gone to the cemetery together, and he had not managed to make himself return to the flat - or Baker Street at all - in the time since. Hell, he hadn't even managed to pick up the damn phone and give his landlady a call, much less visit. The very thought of returning to a place that held so many memories of Sherlock was enough to turn his stomach.

  
He had also lost count of how many times he had been sick.

  
Lestrade had stopped by the bedsit a while ago, bringing some of John's things from the flat, a handful of clothes, some hygiene products, and commenting on how bleak the bedsit looked and how he hoped John wouldn't be staying there for long. Hours later, when he was alone, he had unpacked the box and almost choked on the sob that wrenched its way out of his chest as he discovered that the DI had accidentally packed Sherlock's toothbrush.

  
He had stared at the bloody thing for hours. His back had hurt from leaning against the hard wall for hours, his arse had gone completely numb from sitting on the floor, and his throat and eyes had been sore from crying. And yet he could not bring himself to do anything about the damn brush.

  
It now stood in a glass in the bathroom, dark blue plastic and white bristles. Every time he stood at the sink, he would look at it and remember how Sherlock would sometimes walk around the flat with the toothbrush stuck in his mouth for up to half an hour because he had gotten lost in thought along the way; or gesturing around with it, spraying toothpaste everywhere. He still recalled with perfect clarity how those long pale fingers wrapped around this stupid piece of plastic had looked like, the entire handle disappearing in Sherlock's large hand.

  
Holding on to the damn thing was pathetic and bloody stupid, but John didn't care. It was the only thing he had that reminded him of Sherlock, the only thing that was proof that he had not somehow lost his mind and invented one and half years of his life or the madman he had shared them with.

  
So he kept the toothbrush and had bought a new one for himself, bright red like blood on pavement, and mentioned it to no one - not even Ella.

  
The therapy was another thing that strongly reminded him of his time right after the war. Same therapist, same office, same probing questions. The same inability to answer any of them.

  
It was raining hard today and he sat and stared blankly into the middle distance, listening to the rain drum against the window.

  
"There's stuff that you wanted to say ...," Ella hedged, apparently still unable to leave well-enough alone.

  
John opened his mouth to tell her so, but what would be the point? Too much effort for no real outcome.

  
"... but didn't say it." It sounded almost like a question.

  
John realised she wanted him to answer, to show some kind of response. "Yeah."

  
"Say it now."

  
He tried, he really did, but when he opened his mouth, the words wouldn't come. None of them sounded right.

  
"No," he told her tearfully, shaking his head. "Sorry. I can't."

  
_'How can I tell you when I never dared to tell him? When I don't even know how to put into words how much he meant to me? Some things are better left unsaid.'_

  
Ella clearly did not share his opinion on the matter but she did not push, which was for the best.

  
There were many things John felt unable to say, things he knew he couldn't ever say even if he tried.

  
Because how did you tell someone - _anyone_ \- that you spent most of your time looking over your shoulder because you had the odd feeling that someone was there, watching you? How did you tell anyone about how you sat on your bed for hours, talking into the void in the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, your best friend was right there and could still hear you? That maybe, if you talked for long enough, if you begged and pleaded with him, he might eventually answer.

  
The point was that you didn't.

  
So he sat in Ella's office week after week, not speaking and not sharing, and struggling not to fall apart.

  
*****

 

The Master was not doing well. He knew because humans were pack animals as much as dogs were, and the Master did not have a pack. Not really.

  
He knew that was the problem because he had seen the other member of this pack of two and he was gone while he and the Master stayed behind, one of them helpless as he watched the other drown in his sorrow. He had never before spent so much time in a cloud of sadness and grief.

  
At least the Master was not holed up in his man-cave at the moment. "Bedsit" the human with the silver fur had called the place. The Hound liked the man. He smelled like coffee and stress and nicotine, but beneath that was the warm scent of authority and leadership and friendship. Sadly, the Master did not spend much time with the other man. It would have made him feel less lonely.

  
So would spending time with the nice old she-human who had been with him at the meadow with the dead people in it. The Hound liked her, too. Tea and cookies and roses and grief and a mother's love - she would have made the Master good company.

  
But the nice she-human was not there today, had not been there since that day. The Master was alone, walking through the streets of the city. He was restless and had no destination, but apparently did not want to stay inside the bedsit any longer than he had to. The Hound could relate - he did not like it there. It smelled all wrong, like grief and sadness and the desperation of countless souls.

  
Out in the city, at least, there were other scents to concentrate on. He stayed close to the Master and kept his nose alert in case of danger. There were many things around that the Master was not aware of. He walked past four angels and a succubus without even noticing them. The Hound was impressed. He had never before seen a human walk past a succubus without a second glance.

  
No one dared to approach the Master, though. They were not oblivious to his presence at the Master's side, of the threat he posed just by walking down the street at the Master's heels. Curious eyes followed them until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight, but the Hound stayed alert and did not leave the Master unguarded.

  
Day turned to night turned to day then night again, over and over, and the Master prowled the city or curled up on his sleeping place in the bedsit, where the Hound would jump up and lie down next to him, offering company and comfort even though the Master did not know he was there.

  
And every night, the Master woke from terrible dreams, screaming and shaking and yelling his packmate's name and crying himself back to sleep. Most of the time, though, he did not sleep at all.

  
Time was an unfamiliar thing on Earth. It passed. He was not used to that. Where he belonged, time did not pass at all. Or if it did, there was no way to mark its passing by. Here, there was the sun rising and setting and round things on walls with symbols on them that somehow told humans what time of the day it was.

  
Once, when the sun had set twenty-seven times since they had visited the lawn with the dead people in it, a woman came over. Her scent was similar to that of the Master, but tinged with the rot of alcohol and aimless fury at everyone and everything. She yelled at the Master and pleaded with him and spoke gently and yelled some more and the Master sat and stared at the wall and did not seem to hear her at all.

  
The next day, the Master went out hunting in the big man-cave that humans called Tesco. The Hound followed and watched as he walked around, pushing a metal cage and putting food in it.

  
An older she-human stopped them on their way and her eyes were fixed on the Hound. He knew she could see him and he stayed close by the Master's side and stared back at her. She smiled and spoke to the Master.

  
"Young man, do you know you have a Hell Hound following you around?"

  
The Master looked uncomfortable. "Listen, I don't know what your problem is, but I can't help you."

  
The she-human (woodsmoke and spices and freshly-cut grass) made a noise of amusement. "Don't worry, I'm not crazy. Your Hound surprised me, is all. Haven't seen one of 'em in ages."

  
The Master smelled of confusion. "I really don't know what you're talking about," he said, looking around. "There is no dog anywhere. Dogs aren't allowed inside Tesco and at any rate, I don't have one."

  
"Aye, not that you know of," the she-human agreed, nodding at the Hound. "But I can see 'im clear as day. I swear on me life, it's a Hell Hound."

  
"What, so I'm condemned?" The Master bared his teeth and his tone was a challenge.

  
She patted his arm. "Condemned? No my dear boy. Blessed."

  
His scent changed to something bitter and grief-stricken. "I don't feel blessed."

  
"No one ever does," the she-human said and continued on her way. "It means Heaven's got a plan for you, my boy."

  
The Hound watched her go, wondering how she could see him when others did not, when even the Master did not.

  
"Well, at least I know I've not gone bonkers yet," the Master muttered and continued on his way.

  
He hunted food and strange objects that smelled like glass and metal and damp paper, and when they had returned to the bedsit, he took one of the things and removed the metal and the Hound whined as the scent of alcohol hit his nose.

  
Much later that night, the Master fell asleep in his chair, smelling of alcohol and rot and grief and loneliness. He did not notice the Hound curled up at his feet, but that night, he finally slept long and deep and did not dream.


	23. Part 5 - Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

They watched from a bench at a bus stop on the other side of the street as John Watson fumbled for his keys and let himself into the building.

  
"That's him?"

  
"Yes."

  
A huff. "He is not what I expected. Just look at him. He is so ... tiny."

  
"Broken."

  
"Indeed. And developing a drinking habit."

  
"Are you sure it's him?"

  
"Absolutely."

  
"He does not look like much. He hardly looks like he could pose a threat to any of us."

  
"The Lord has plans for him."

  
"The Lord has plans for many people. None of them ever looked like they could not carry the weight of their own body."

  
"But God likes it. This ... _sentiment_. The heroism of experiencing crippling grief and pain and still setting one foot in front of the other."

  
"If this human tried to set one foot in front of the other, he would fall flat on his face."

  
"I was talking metaphorically."

  
"My point still stands - or has collapsed onto his bed by now, more likely. I do not see how he poses a threat to us. Give it a little more time and the first cracks in his soul will show."

  
"Unless he drinks himself to death before that. _He_ would like the poetry of that."

  
"I see. That would be quite unfortunate."

  
"Indeed."

  
"In that case, let me suggest we do something to make him stop drinking. Once we have ensured his continued survival, the cracks will start to form soon enough. There is no need for haste. Holmes is dead for good now, he cannot interfere."

  
"Even if he was still in the picture, he would have no idea of what is going on."

  
"True enough. He soared so high and then he fell. Our very own Icarus. But then again, you would know all about his Fall, would you not?"

  
"I do not regret my part in it, if that is what you mean. They were destined to cross paths - he could not be allowed to do so in possession of his powers."

  
"That would certainly have thrown a wench in our plans. He still managed to bring out the best in Watson, however."

  
"All the better that he is gone now. We have nothing to fear from that direction any longer."

  
"Then let us not waste our time talking of it any further. We are in agreement on how to proceed?"

  
"We are."

  
"Yes."

  
"Very well then. I suggest we put the idea in the Detective Inspector's head. An authority figure may be enough to put Watson off his chosen path."

  
"I agree. And without the alcohol to numb him, he will soon go in search of another coping mechanism."

  
"I shall do it tonight, then, while the good Inspector is sleeping. Let us meet again here in a week to see how our plan has worked out so far."

  
The others nodded and when the bus arrived, they got in and found places far away from one another, pretending there was no connection between them.

  
Inside the bedsit on the other side of the street, John Watson had passed out on the bed with an almost empty bottle of Scotch clutched in his arms.

  
*****

 

Lestrade woke the next morning with a slight headache that reminded him oddly of a hangover. It was very strange indeed because he had not had more than a pint a day - if even that much - in ages. The very day of Sherlock's suicide, he had been tempted to go to the closest pub and drink himself to oblivion, but in the end he had decided that nothing but misery lay down that road.

  
It had been a wise decision, as it turned out, because he had needed all his wits about him to keep his job and glue the cracked pieces of his reputation as a good detective back together. That had taken a lot of work and dedication, but Lestrade had been doing a good job before Sherlock bloody Holmes had showed up on a cold and miserable night eight years ago, and he could do so again.

  
Patching up his work relationship with his Sergeant had been a much harder piece of work. Donovan was as pig-headed as a dog with a bone ninety percent of the time, and entirely unapologetic for accusing Sherlock of all the crimes that careful investigation had finally put squarely at Jim Moriarty's or Richard Brook's feet. Or whatever the hell his actual name was. However, his Sergeant did feel genuinely sorry for the consulting detective's suicide, though she did point out that it had been a rather melodramatic thing to do. After all, there had not even been a court case or an official hearing yet, he could have well cleared up the misunderstanding and walked away a free man.

  
"Melodramatic? _Sherlock?_ ," Lestrade had asked her in disbelief. "Bloody hell! It's like you didn't know him at all. If there was a way to make something more dramatic than it needed to be, he always found it. And he always was one for burning bright and fast. All the great ones are."

  
Donovan had not known what to say in response, but from that day on, they had avoided the topic by mutual unspoken agreement and got on with their work. Just because Sherlock Holmes had decided that this life was no longer for him, the same could not be said for London's criminal classes.

  
Cursing under his breath, Greg stumbled into his flat's tiny bathroom and went about the difficult process of getting ready to face the world in all its corrupt glory. A quick shower and a shave later, he sat in his kitchen and waited for the coffee to run through, which would hopefully push him into full wakefulness.

  
Technically, he had the day off, so there was no need to actually get up too early, but years of working on the force had deeply ingrained the habits of an early riser in him. That still left him with an entire day to himself, though, and he needed something to do.

  
The coffee machine flicked itself off with a loud click and he got up, wincing as the movement made his headache flare again. Bugger, he felt hungover. He had never been much of a drinker, the odd pint here and there with friends, sure, and every now and then he and John used to meet for drinks, but mostly to complain about the mad wanker connecting their lives.

  
John ... now that was an idea right there. He hadn't seen the man in months, not since he had brought him some of his things from Baker Street, and boy had he been in bad shape then. _'He looks like death warmed over'_ he remembered thinking then, and now he cursed himself for not having taken the time to make sure John was all right.

  
He really should have done that. He owed Sherlock at least that much, to look after John for him now that the detective himself was gone. And what a bastard Holmes was for leaving his best friend behind in such a way. Even now Greg wanted to dig him up and punch him in the face for that.

  
_'Well, I've got the day off, might as well go and see if John's still in that terrible dump,'_ he decided, sipping his coffee with a new sense of purpose. Yes, that would be just the thing. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He felt a vague sense of guilt as he thought about how alone John must have felt, must still feel. _'The poor sod.'_ He really should have gone to see him much sooner, but work had taken precedence as it always did. Not today, though.

  
He finished his cup of coffee and then a second one, ate a slice of toast and grabbed his phone, keys and jacket. He still knew the address and the drive took less than twenty minutes. As he caught sight of the sad building John had chosen for a new home, he shuddered, hoping against hope that the inside didn't look as bad as he seemed to recall.  
It was worse.

  
Not a soul was to be seen or heard and he wondered if he really had that much of a copper-vibe about him. This certainly seemed like the kind of building where you could break down any door and find either a meth lab, an illegal brothel or a drug den. A place for the lost and lonely. A place where John Watson should not belong.

  
He firmly reminded himself of his mission. John was the important one here, he couldn't let his job interfere any longer. Resolutely, he knocked on the door. John would probably be at home - Greg certainly didn't think he was an early riser, not after having heard him complain about being dragged out of his comfortable bed by Sherlock in the wee hours of the morning to go and stand around a crime scene on the other side of London.

  
It took forever and then some, but finally the door was opened and John peered out at him with glassy eyes. At least Lestrade assumed it was John. The height was about correct, though the wreck in front of him stood slumped where he had only ever seen military straightness before. Other than that and the terrible jumpers, this man bore little resemblance to the John Watson he used to know.

  
"What the bloody hell do you-," John began before recognising him. "Oh. Greg. Sorry, didn't expect ya. Were we supposed to meet?"

  
"From the looks of you, I think we were supposed to meet up at least four months ago," Greg told him. He had involuntarily taken a step back as John spoke, but now he approached him again, wrinkling his nose. "Bloody hell, John, you smell like a friggin' distillery."

  
Shit, Sherlock would kill him for letting John turn into this shell - if he was still around, that was. And also, if he had been around, it never would've come to this.

  
Shaking himself out of it, Lestrade pushed John back into the flat and closed the door behind the two of them. He looked around, completely ignoring the way John slumped back into his armchair. An empty bottle of scotch lay next to the chair and a half-full one stood on the small table next to it. Unwashed cups and dirty dishes were piled on most of the surfaces. John himself looked like he hadn't shaved or even showered in at least a week and his eyes were blood-shot and sunken.

  
"All right," Lestrade said, breathing through his mouth to block out most of the smell. "This ends now."

  
He marched over to the window, drew back the shades and opened it as far as it would go before starting to collect the cups and plates, piling them all in the kitchen next to the sink.

  
"Does it?," John asked in a disinterested tone and reached for the half-full bottle of scotch beside him.

  
Greg walked over to him in four long strides, pulled the bottle from his grip without any difficulty at all - yet another worrying sign; John had never been weak - and carried it to the kitchen, where he up-ended it into the sink.

  
"Hey! I needed that!," John protested, struggling to his feet. He was actually swaying, which explained why he had taken so long to answer the door.

  
"Yes, I can see that," Lestrade told him angrily. "Which is exactly why I am taking it away. The booze has to go, John. Do you think Sherlock would want you to slowly drink yourself to death in this dump? Do you think he'd want you to waste away in this place instead of going out there and doing something with your life? As far as I know, he didn't drag you out of just such a place and cure your leg just so you would crawl right back now he's gone."

  
The fact that John didn't even ask how he knew about that told him everything he needed to know about his friend's current state of mind.

  
Greg sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go and have a shower, a long and thorough one, find some clean clothes to wear and for god's sake shave."

  
"What's the point?," John muttered, staring at him dully. "He left me here, why'd he care what happens to me now? An' ... an' there's no reason to go to all that effort anyways. Jus' leave me 'ere and lemme drown in peace."

  
"Like hell I will," Lestrade said. "Shower, clothes, shave. _Now!_ " He barked the last word in his best I-am-the-superior-officer-on-this-scene-and-I-expect-obedience voice. It appeared that at least some of John's army training hadn't gone down the drain because he straightened marginally and actually managed a half-decent march to the bathroom.

  
Once he heard the shower being turned on, Lestrade nodded to himself and went to tackle the dirty dishes in the kitchen. Some of them looked about ready to walk out of the flat on their own.

  
Sighing, the DI went to work, mentally kicking himself for not having interfered sooner. He really should have expected something like this to happen. Hell, he had seen how much Sherlock had improved with John around, it wasn't hard to see that the detective had been a good influence on John's enjoyment of life as well, as difficult as Sherlock being a good influence on anyone was to grasp.

  
He really should have seen this coming. Those two had been attached at the hip, or might as well have been, of course John wouldn't know what to do with himself now Sherlock was gone.

  
"Ah, Sherlock, guess you were right and I truly am an idiot," he sighed.

  
Greg half expected the ceiling to open up and Sherlock's voice to boom through the room in the loudest, most deserved _"I told you so!"_ in history, but of course nothing happened. To be fair, though, if there was one person to figure out a way to haunt him from beyond the grave, Sherlock Holmes would be the one he'd bet his money on.

  
Shaking his head at his own thoughts, Lestrade grabbed a towel and started drying the first half of the dishes to make room for the second half. How John, as a doctor, had managed to leave the place in such a state was a mystery to him. Even with Sherlock and all his experiments the kitchen at 221b Baker Street had never looked like a combination of biohazard and fungi farm.

  
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen looked as close to clean as any kitchen in this building was likely going to get, the air quality had improved noticeably thanks to the open window, and John had managed to shower and shave and get dressed. He had also managed to reach the toilet before he threw up, a fact that Lestrade was tremendously grateful for. Cleaning up another man's puke just went a bit too far.

  
*****

 

All right, so maybe that shower hadn't been such a bad idea. He had read somewhere that taking a shower made people feel more productive. Since he had spent the past couple of days (weeks? a month? more? He didn't know) in an alcohol-induced stupor, John decided that being upright, dressed in clean clothes and freshly shaven was more than enough productive behaviour for one day.

  
His head hurt like hell, though. Damn Lestrade and his bloody interference.

  
"Sit," the DI ordered and John did, though mostly because he doubted his legs would have carried his weight any longer. The kitchen chair was far less comfortable than his armchair, but right now everything felt better than standing on his own two feet.

  
He looked around the kitchen, noticing vaguely that something was different about it. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, though. He didn't really want to, anyway, because thinking made his head hurt more.

  
A plate with two slices of toast on it appeared in front of him, followed by a cup of coffee.

  
"Eat," Lestrade told him in a tone that brooked no argument.

  
Some small part of his brain was still used to obeying orders - first his drill sergeant's, then those of his commanding officer Sholto, later Sherlock's - and before he knew it, he had already eaten half of the first toast. There wasn't anything on it, which was probably for the best, but at least it served to dispell the god-awful taste in his mouth. Maybe he should have brushed his teeth while he was in the bathroom.

  
"And drink your coffee, too," the DI added for good measure. "When was the last time you had breakfast?"

  
"Yesterday," John told him, surprised at the sound of his own voice. Scratchy from disuse.

  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "And when was the last time you had breakfast that wasn't some form of alcohol?"

  
He didn't remember and pretended to be very focused on his toast. Not that there was much left of that. Apparently he had been hungry. Weird how he hadn't even noticed that.

  
"That's what I thought," Greg said, sighing. "It's about time you got sober. Seriously, John, this can't continue."

  
"Can't it?," he asked disinterestedly. "Why not?"

  
"You're killing yourself."

  
He shrugged. "So what? There's nothing left for me to do, is there? Don't have a job, don't have a girlfriend, don't have any friends, don't have Sher- _him_. I should've died years ago, might as well give in to the inevitable now."

  
"We both know that's not true," Lestrade protested. "Plenty of people are all right being single and you do have friends, although you sure haven't bothered contacting them. Mrs Hudson and I, for one, -"

  
John realised that Greg felt hurt by his comment on his lack of friends, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It was all so pointless now, boring and uneventful and _dull_.

  
"-and if you got up off your arse instead of sitting here, drowning yourself in the bottle, you might also have a job. I know you, John, and I know you must be qualified, because otherwise he'd never have taken you on as his assistant. So don't give me that bullshit."

  
He reached for another slice of toast and noticed there was nothing left. Staring blankly at the plate, he tried to remember where the food had gone before concluding that he must have eaten it all. He barely recalled doing that. The plate made him realise what it was that had seemed off about his kitchen, however. It was clean. He looked around in astonishment, trying to work out where all the plates and mugs and take-out containers had gone. There was no sign of them now, but he noticed a large blue sack of trash by the door.

  
John blinked up at Lestrade. When had the man done all that? Because it sure as hell wasn't John's doing, yet here he was, in his clean kitchen, nursing a hangover from hell. He hadn't had a hangover in ages - mostly because he hadn't stopped being drunk long enough to get one.

  
"You gotta get out of this dump, John," Greg told him, reclining on the chair opposite him. "This is no way to live. Hell, this is barely an existence. You can't go on like this."

  
John shrugged. He didn't particularly mind the bedsit. It suited his mood, all glum and damp and fucked up. He thought he fit in splendidly. So what if there was mould growing all over the bathroom and the bed had probably more bugs in it than bloody Mycroft had installed all over London? He didn't care and he couldn't really afford any other place, either.

  
"Listen, I'll talk to Mrs Hudson, see if you can't move back into Baker Street," Lestrade said, digging out his phone. "I understand if you don't want to stay there, but you have to get out of this place ASAP. You can always find another flat, all right? I'll even help you with that. But I'm not letting you stay in this dump for a day longer."

  
Dispassionately, John watched as the DI got up and started pacing between the kitchen table and the armchair as he talked to Mrs Hudson. He barely registered the conversation, too caught up in his own thoughts.

  
He recalled that, a couple months ago, he had refused to go there, that he hadn't wanted to face the empty flat, but it was getting harder and harder to remember why. All he knew was that sometimes he still woke up expecting to be in his old bedroom, and that more often than not he couldn't recall in which cupboard the mugs were because they had always been in the cupboard above the sink and there was no cupboard above the sink here.

  
He missed the mismatched wallpaper, yellow smiley and bullet holes included, and the thick carpet and stacks of books and heavy drapes covering the windows. He missed the familiar creak of the stairs and the faint sounds of Mrs Hudson puttering about in her kitchen downstairs. He missed his armchair and not enough space in the fridge because of the dead animals or body parts in it.

  
Most of all, he missed his flatmate.

  
That was what it all boiled down to, of course. John Watson missed Sherlock Holmes.

  
He missed him in ways he had never imagined he could miss anyone or anything. He missed him so much he had no idea what to do with the feeling, and it drowned out everything else. The only thing that had drowned out the missing had been the drinking. And that only made him remember that time he had gotten Sherlock ridiculously smashed during their Bond night. In hindsight, drinking every time a car exploded or someone fired more bullets from his gun than the magazine could possibly fit had been a rather stupid idea.

  
In the beginning, he had felt as if he were drowning in memories of Sherlock. The scent of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the walls of his bedsit had made him want to curl up and cry. More often than not, he had given in to the urge. The very thought of Baker Street and all the memories ingrained in its walls and floors and furniture had made him retch.

  
Now, he was growing increasingly afraid of forgetting. That maybe, one day, he would not remember the exact way Sherlock's chair looked when the sunlight hit it at just the right angle to make the dust in the air above the dark leather dance. That maybe he wouldn't recall the precise texture and pattern of the wallpaper, the exact location of the bullet holes in the wall.

  
That maybe, one day, he would wake up and not remember the way Sherlock's eyes would light up when he had a particularly brilliant idea, or the way his damp hair curled when he came out of the shower, or how small and delicate everything had looked in his large hands. He might wake up one morning and not be able to recall the exact sight and sound of Sherlock playing the violin at three in the morning with his eyes closed and his robe swishing about his legs as he swayed along to the music.

  
And, his greatest fear of all, that maybe one day he would wake up and not be able to remember Sherlock and what it had felt like to have him in his life. The idea that there might come a time when he did no longer recall the best time of his life with perfect clarity made his stomach churn.

  
"John? John!"

  
The sudden sensation of a hand on his shoulder made him start and he looked up into Lestrade's concerned face. "Are you all right? You were shaking."

  
"I'm fine," he muttered, trying to suppress another shiver. No, he could not let that happen.

  
"Good news," the DI told him. "Mrs Hudson would be overjoyed to have you back. Doesn't give a damn about the rent, either. Says she hasn't had the heart to let it out again, it's all untouched. Let's get your things, you're moving outta here."

  
Feeling numb, John nodded and did as he was told. Lestrade packed his clothes for him while he emptied the bathroom of all his stuff - which wasn't exactly much. He carelessly dropped most of it into a plastic bag, the rest went in the trash.

  
Then, just as he was about to close the mirrored cabinet above the sink, he caught sight of the toothbrush sitting innocently in the glass he had put it in, dark blue plastic and white bristles. After a moment's thought, he carefully picked it up and gently lowered it into the bag, on top of his own things. The toothbrush was too precious to throw away or leave behind.

  
Half an hour later, when the door of the bedsit fell closed behind him for the last time with a resounding click, all he felt was relief.


	24. Part 5 - Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments! You guys blow me away!

**Chapter 4**

 

Mrs Hudson came all the way out onto the street to greet John and Lestrade, hugging the latter with a quiet "thank you" before wrapping her thin and surprisingly strong arms around the former and holding on as if she did not intend to let go anytime soon. John had no choice but to hug her back, breathing in that familiar scent of baked goods and warm wool and cleaning supplies. He hadn't even realised how much he had missed that until now.

  
"It's good to have you back, John," she told him when she finally let go, wiping her eyes. Lestrade handed her a tissue which she accepted with a grateful look.

  
John didn't know what to say, so he tried for a smile. It felt brittle and uncomfortable on his lips and probably didn't look very convincing, but he felt he deserved to be cut some slack for making an effort.

  
"Let me help you with your stuff," Lestrade offered, snatching up John's suitcase. That was all he had taken with him. One suitcase with some clothes and the bare necessities. Other than that, he only had his plastic bag with the stuff from the bathroom. He thought he was perfectly capable of carrying his things up the stairs himself, thank you very much, but by the time he opened his mouth to protest, Greg was already halfway upstairs.

  
"There wasn't much time to dust, it was all such short notice, but I did my best," Mrs Hudson told him, grasping his arm and all but shoving him towards the stairs. "I'll be up and get the place back in shape once you've got settled in again."

  
"Thank you, you really didn't have to...," John started, but he might as well have not said anything at all, for all the attention she paid his feeble protests.

  
"Nonsense. Oh, my dear boy, I'm so glad you decided to come back. It does get dreadfully lonely all on my own in this big house, but I just couldn't bear to have strangers moving in."

  
By then, they had reached the threshhold of 221b and John froze, staring at the familiar, much-abused door. It had rarely ever been closed, and since Lestrade had taken his things up to his old room, there had been no need to open it now.

  
"It's all just as you left it," Mrs Hudson said quietly, noticing his hesitation. "I couldn't bring myself to give his science equipment away, so it's all still there."

  
John nodded, not sure if this was meant to prepare him for what waited inside or as a comfort. He didn't even know what it felt like to him.

  
Slowly, before he could change his mind about this, he reached out and opened the door, unconsciously holding his breath as it swung inside and revealed the one place he called home.

  
It was as if time had stood still in here. While he had been sitting in his bedsit, wasting away and clinging to the bottle and his memories, the flat at 221b had remained the way he had left it. Golden sunlight came through a slit in the heavy curtains, cutting the sitting room clean in two and shattering in the frosted glass of the kitchen doors.

  
Dust swirled in the air and John breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of dust and books and wood and leather and the lingering trace of chemicals. This was home.

  
It felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest.

  
A moment later, the memories rushed at him, of countless times when he had dashed in and out of this flat without a second thought, usually hot on the heels of a tall madman in a long dark coat, of quiet evenings spent in front of the fire and countless clients in the wooden chair between their armchairs.

  
Nothing had changed in this flat. He stepped into the sitting room and turned to peer into the kitchen. Any moment now, Sherlock would emerge from his bedroom, closing the last buttons of his shirt and scolding him for having been gone for so long, or poke his head out of the bathroom and ask a completely random question about John's favourite pair of socks.

  
But of course, nothing happened, and as the moment dragged on, John remembered that Sherlock was dead and would never be in this flat again. The thought was like a punch to the solar plexus, taking his breath away and almost making him double over, but it was far more bearable than it had been in the bedsit. At least here there was no danger of him forgetting. Here, he would always remember.

  
He took a shaky breath and turned around to where Mrs Hudson stood waiting, and an expectant Lestrade behind her. He flashed them a tiny smile. "I think," he slowly said, "I think I'll be all right."

  
He cleared his throat, looking around the sitting room again. "I'd really like to be alone for a bit now, though."

  
It was not the most subtle way of going about it, but his landlady and Lestrade both took the hint by loudly proclaiming to go downstairs for a nice cuppa and a long-overdue chat, leaving John to his own devices.

  
For a while, he simply stood in the middle of the sitting room, turning slowly on the spot to take in every detail, letting the memories rush at him. Finally, he took off his jacket and boots and socks and lowered himself into his comfy red armchair. His toes curled into the soft carpet, a long-established habit that served to ground and comfort him in equal measure. From this position, Sherlock's leather armchair was at the very centre of his attention, the cushion still showing the dent where the detective had last sat.

  
When John closed his eyes, he could almost imagine his friend was there, less than two feet away from him. But when he opened them again, there was just the chair. And it was glaringly, painfully, cruelly empty.

  
For the longest time, John Watson wept.

  
*****

  
It got easier after that.

  
Being back in familiar surroundings, a place where he had always felt safe and at home, was a huge step forward from the terrible bedsit. 221b looked lived-in, comfortable and homely in ways no bedsit ever could. Yes, Sherlock was missing, but if he tried really hard, John could almost pretend his friend was ensconed in Bart's lab, having lost track of time over an experiment. Or maybe he had gone to Minsk again, to interview a prospective client.

  
One of the first things to improve was his general health. He had lost a lot of weight during his liquid diet, only remembering to eat about once a day, sometimes once in two days, and retching most of it back up when either a fresh wave of grief or the alcohol made him sick.

  
Now he had Mrs Hudson, who didn't even bother claiming not to be his housekeeper anymore. Hardly a day passed without her dropping in to give him some of the food she had made. Her excuse of having cooked a bit too much by accident quickly wore thin, until she finally stopped using it alltogether.

  
John didn't mind. The regular food deliveries meant he did not have to bother cooking himself, which was a relief. The kitchen may not be a biohazard anymore, but eating anything prepared in there was always going to be an adventure.

  
Mrs Hudson also frequently invited herself upstairs for a cuppa or lured John down into her flat with some kind of excuse - a light bulb needing changing, for example - and then made him stay for tea, which always included a freshly baked cake or at least a plate of cookies.

  
In the first days after he moved back in, she spent more time up in 221b than her own flat, ostensibly ridding the entire flat of dust while not-so-secretly keeping an eye on him to make sure he was all right. Lestrade had clearly tipped her off about the drinking, too, because she had very thoroughly tossed the entire flat for all sorts of alcoholic beverages and if he actually went to get groceries for himself, she somehow timed her appearances in a way that allowed her to intercept him in the door to his own flat to "help put these away" - a splendid opportunity to make sure he hadn't bought any alcohol.

  
Not that he had any intention of doing that, actually. Once he had sobered up completely for the first time in weeks, he had been consumed by an intense feeling of guilt and self-hatred. He had always sworn never to turn into his father and Harry, and now he had found himself all too eager to run down the same path they had taken. At breakneck speed, no less.

  
Once upon a time, he had not understood how people could possibly drown their sorrows in alcohol, had felt no sympathy for them at all. Now, he would give anything to get back to that state of unknowing obliviousness.

  
In a way, he felt grateful to Mrs Hudson and her fussing over him. She always had a cheerful or interesting story about one or another of the neighbours or common acquaintances to tell and if there wasn't, she inquired after Harry or told John about her own life. She only scratched the surface of her mysterious executed husband, but John got a feeling that she would gladly tell him all about how she had met Sherlock if only he asked.

  
He didn't, though. He still felt too raw to talk about him. Most of the time, he barely managed to say his name without choking up, so he stopped mentioning him at all. Everyone he talked to was perfectly aware of who "he" was, after all, so there was no need to say his name.

  
He knew he couldn't go on like this forever. Mrs Hudson never mentioned the rent at all and frequently told him how glad she was to have him back, but he knew that the additional income wouldn't be amiss and he wanted to give something back, even if it was only something to ease the financial burden on her shoulders.

  
His army pension was barely a drop in the pond - after all, that was why he had been looking for a flatmate in the first place, back when he had first met Sherlock.

  
Also, he was growing restless again. There was nothing to do, except giving Mrs Hudson a helping hand every now and again. If he stayed inactive for too long, he would go mad. As comfortable and nice as Baker Street was, he could not stay here all day every day on his own without eventually losing his mind.

  
There was nothing for it - he needed a job.

  
*****

 

John quickly discovered that some of his medical knowledge was no longer as accurate as it used to be, mostly because quite some time had passed since he had last had a job in his chosen field. After the incident at the pool, Sherlock had started getting more and more clients and finally John had handed in his resignation. The choice between the locum work at the clinc and working cases with Sherlock had been so easy it was hardly worth being called a choice at all.

  
Things had changed a lot since then, though, and there was hardly a need to correctly diagnose pneumonia in someone who had just been stabbed to death.

  
He had gotten a bit rusty, so he decided that the first thing he needed to do before applying for a job was to brush up on his knowledge. When he had initially moved into 221b almost three years ago, he had been armed with two boxes of medical textbooks and Sherlock himself had a not insubstantial collection of books on every branch of science except perhaps astronomy.

  
The problem, of course, was that Sherlock had also had a tendency to carry books around while he was reading them, only to leave them on the closest flat surface when he lost interest in them, got distracted, or had found what he had been looking for.

  
There were books strewn all over the flat. They were piled on and under tables, beneath the sofa, behind the sofa, in two layers on the shelves, as well as on the stairs and in John's bedroom (he had no idea when Sherlock had found occasion to drag a book on animal dissection up there and wasn't sure he wanted to know). Books were also to be found in the kitchen - in cupboards, on top of cupboards, under the sink, on the table, in the fruit bowl, and so on. The bathroom held stacks of magazines but no actual books, probably because of the humidity.

  
John searched the entire flat for his textbooks on human anatomy and common diseases in the general population, as well as a tome on not-so-common diseases that were frequently misdiagnosed. They were nowhere to be found and in the end, he had to face the fact that they were most likely in the one room he had not yet been brave enough to enter - Sherlock's bedroom.

  
He had rarely been in there even when Sherlock was alive - somehow, the room had always seemed off-limits to him in some way. Now, he regarded it as almost sacred ground, the place in the flat that had belonged entirely to Sherlock. The place where he had slept (unless he passed out elsewhere) and where he kept his private belongings (John had no idea what they even were). Also, he had always found the idea of being in Sherlock's bedroom a bit too ... unsettling.

  
Unfounded and stubbornly denied desire was one thing, as was the occasional flash of temptation, but the very idea of spending any length of time in Sherlock's bedroom - with the man himself in it - had always seemed like pushing it a bit too far. He couldn't even have said what exactly "it" was.

  
Now, there was nothing to do but get it over with. He had a duty to the living, to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, who stopped by after work at least twice a week to see him. For their sake, he had to soldier on, to get on with what was left of his life and make the best of the ruins. He needed a job, something to occupy his mind and hands and time with. Something to make him feel useful.

  
"Enough of this dithering," he told himself firmly. Squaring his shoulders as if he were about to march into battle, he took one last deep breath and opened Sherlock's bedroom door.

  
The hinges creaked a little from the lack of use over the past six months - had it really been that long already? - and he made a mental note to find some oil if the creaking didn't stop on its own.

  
Despite the ominous noise, the room looked positively benign. People who had known Sherlock would have been shocked to learn that this was his bedroom, in fact. Compared to the rest of the flat, it was almost obsessively neat.

  
For a moment, John stood on the threshold and remembered the handful of times he had previously been in here. Once to drag a hilariously drugged Sherlock into bed, once to make sure Sherlock was all right after he had disappeared in here during their disaster of a Christmas party, once when Sherlock had beckoned him in to see Irene Adler sleeping in his bed - quite a surprise to the both of them, that one - and twice to search the place for drugs on danger nights.

  
"All right, get on with it," he muttered and walked into the room. If he was breathing a bit more deeply than usual, trying to catch a trace of Sherlock's scent, he pretended not to be aware of it as he rounded the bed (unmade, the covers pushed all the way to the foot end, the pillows bunched up, sheets wrinkled) and approached the cabinet on the wall.

  
This was where Sherlock kept various odds and ends that had probably accumulated over the years, as well as more books. They were stacked on the nightstand as well, but only John's anatomy textbook was among them. He pulled it out of the stack and placed it on the floor in the middle of the room.

  
Kneeling in front of the cabinet, he searched the shelves first, hoping he would find his books quickly and be done with it without having to dig too deep.

  
He should have known that Sherlock would not make it that easy. John found lots of books, some of which he hadn't even known existed, much less that Sherlock owned them. None of them were his, though. The fact that they weren't neatly stacked didn't help, either. Every now and then, he had to lift some so he could read the title of the book underneath. One was bound in cloth and didn't have a title on the cover, so he was forced to dig it out of the pile and open it - mostly out of curiosity.

  
It turned out to be a tome on bees and beekeeping, something he hadn't known Sherlock had an interest in. It looked as if it had been read frequently, though, and there were several bookmarks in it. Opening the book to one of them, he was surprised to find that it was not a bookmark but a photograph instead.

  
Uncomprehendingly, he stared at it. As far as pictures went, this one didn't make any sense at all.

  
It was clearly Sherlock - absolutely, definitely, no doubt about it - but at the same time, he had never seen Sherlock look anything like this. The picture itself was black-and-white and looked old, like the handful of photographs John had of his great-grandparents, stemming from a time shortly after photography had first been invented.

  
Sherlock was dressed in clothes that would not have been out of place in a film about Queen Victoria, dark breeches and a white shirt, striped waistcoat, and wearing a frankly scary white cravat. Hell, there was even the chain of a pocket watch dangling on his chest!

  
John wondered when on earth Sherlock had had occasion to wear such an outfit. A case at some kind of regency era event? Undercover at the theatre? He certainly had had the acting skills required for that. A costume ball?

  
He wished he could ask, but of course there was no one there who could tell him. He didn't even consider approaching Mycroft about it - he was still furious with the older Holmes brother and had no desire to ever see him again, thank you very much. Also, Mycroft would hardly tell him about it but rather scold him for going through Sherlock's things in the first place. Worse, he might take them away.

  
Putting the photograph back and closing the book with a shake of his head and a sad sigh, John continued his search. His textbooks had to be _somewhere_ , after all, and he intended to find them.

  
John soon had to concede that none of his other textbooks were to be found on the shelves, on or beneath the nightstand or under Sherlock's bed. He did, however, discover one of his favourite jumpers wedged between the mattress and the bedframe. Puzzled, he looked down at the garment which he had been unable to find in perhaps a year. Well, this certainly explained it - how had he been supposed to suspect it would be in Sherlock's _bed_?! And that in itself was something he did not dare speculate about at all, for fear of giving himself a headache or bursting into tears all over again.

  
He had been holding up surprisingly well so far, but this just might push him over the edge.

  
Admitting defeat as far as the shelves and floor went, John turned his attention to the drawers. He felt rather uncomfortable going through Sherlock's stuff, which was simply stupid.

  
_'As if he ever cared about personal boundaries. He probably went through my drawers once a week for all I know,'_ he thought, sniffling once. _'Besides, I've searched the place for drugs. Textbooks are actually a step up from that.'_

  
Truth be told, he would rather be searching for a hidden drug stash and then take Sherlock to task about it - anything if only he could have his best friend back.

  
Before he could fall down that rabbit hole again, he pulled open the top drawer. It was filled to the brim with carefully sorted accessories - watches, necklaces, bracelets, even some clip-on earrings, several wigs, make-up supplies, a priest's collar and some other stuff John couldn't identify out of context. They were part of Sherlock's enormous collection of disguises. The man could have dressed up as a member of a rock band and gotten away with it. The discovery of half a dozen police badges, all property of DI Greg Lestrade, startled a rusty laugh from him.

  
The next drawer held a large collection of photographs, most of them polaroids. They seemed to stem from all over the world. There were places and even a couple of faces John recognised, but mostly he had no idea who or what he was looking at. Amidst the photographs, various objects were strewn about. He assumed they held some sort of sentimental value (which, considering who owned them, seemed doubtful) but on their own they were worthless at best and junk at worst.

  
He spent some time trying to find a common factor to seashells, rusty coins from all around the world (some of which looked so old he wondered if they belonged in a museum), bottle caps, a pair of broken glasses that might have been fashionable when his grandmother had been a young girl, pieces of ribbon, a handful of pressed flowers and some pebbles. In the end, he had to give up. Clearly, whatever this was had made sense to Sherlock, otherwise he would not have kept it, but to John none of it meant anything.

  
In the next drawer, he found more books. He was privately impressed by how many books Sherlock had managed to stash away in the flat without making it look like they were living in a library. Come to think of it, John could not remember what they had done with all the books from the Black Lotus case. Had they given them back or had Sherlock managed to somehow keep them all?

  
Looking through the collection, he found a handful of novels and - finally - his missing medical textbooks.

  
"Should've looked in here first," he muttered ruefully as he pulled them out.

  
His task accomplished, he knew he should grab his books and leave, but there was one drawer left and for some reason it bothered him. There had been nothing too intimate or disturbing in the others, so why should this last one be any different? And it wasn't like he was breaking any confidences, after all. Sherlock was hardly in a position to argue. If there had been anything of personal importance, surely Mycroft would have removed it in the months while John had been away.

  
Giving himself a mental shove, he pulled open the bottom drawer, firmly telling himself that he was ready for absolutely anything.

  
He wasn't.

  
Knowing his friend well, John would not have been surprised to discover an entire stuffed ant eater or maybe even a colony of living ants. He would not have been even remotely startled to find a collection of instruments used in macabre murders over the centuries. Hell, he wouldn't even be shocked by photographs and video material taken of actual crime scenes.

  
He was not, however, in any way prepared for what he found instead.

  
The drawer was lined in deep red velvet and almost empty safe for two equally random objects. Well, random as far as Sherlock was concerned, certainly.

  
The first, which was the reason for John's surprise, was a book, thick and heavy and beautifully bound in dark brown leather with golden letters stamped upon the cover.

  
It was a Bible.

  
After staring at it for a full minute, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, John carefully lifted the book out of the drawer. It was even heavier than it looked. A book fit to use as murder weapon, if it wasn't so beautiful. The confusing thing was: why would Sherlock own one?

  
John had never in his life met anyone whom he would consider more of an atheist than Sherlock Holmes. To a man who valued logic and science above all else, religion as a whole and the Bible in particular could hardly be anything but atrocities, after all.

  
Yet here he was, in Sherlock's bedroom, with the most beautiful Bible in his lap. It didn't make sense.

  
Wondering if perhaps there was something special about the book itself - maybe Sherlock had cut out most of the pages to use the book as a secret compartment for something? - he opened it and started leafing through the pages. It seemed a perfectly ordinary book, however. There were no pages missing and nothing had been shoved in between the existing ones.

  
There were, however, certain additions.

  
John would have recognised Sherlock's scrawl anywhere, and this book was full of it. While the Old Testament had apparently held little interest for the detective, the New Testament was filled with his comments. He lamented people's stupidity and their gullible minds, bemoaned the lack of logic in basically everything and had stroked through entire passages.

  
Ah well, that made sense. John thought Sherlock might have used a less gorgeous book to complain in, but at least this explained why he owned a Bible. For a moment, he found himself wishing he could have watched as Sherlock read the thing for the first time, just to see the look on his face as he read more and more.

  
Closing the Bible, he carefully put it back in its place and turned his attention to the other item in the drawer.

  
In a way, this was something he would have expected Sherlock to keep, but he would not have thought to look for it cushioned on velvet in a drawer right next to a Bible.

  
Carefully, he pulled it out and examined it from all angles.

  
It was a feather, and a very large one at that. And, as far as feathers went, it was perfect. When he had been a kid and on vacation at the seaside with his parents, he had often collected feathers but they had rarely been in good condition. This one looked so perfect it might as well have been artificial. Except it wasn't, he was sure of that.

  
He held it up into the light, blinking as the copper glowed almost golden in the sun. The feather was huge, really. A quick comparison showed it was as long as his arm measured from his elbow to the tips of his fingers. John wondered what kind of bird had feathers like that, but couldn't come up with anything except possibly an eagle, and as far as he knew those had brown feathers.

  
For all he knew, Sherlock had found the thing whilst traipsing through the Indian rainforest where he had caught a group of poachers hunting for some rare bird with a ridiculous name such as green-beaked crappercroppler or something.

  
Shaking his head, he put the feather back in its place and closed the drawer. If anything, he was more confused about his best friend now than he had been before. But, he thought, confusion was all right. Confusion didn't hurt and could eventually be dealt with or ignored until it went away on its own.

  
He gathered up his textbooks and the crumbled jumper and left the room, closing the door quietly.

  
*****

 

The Master was doing better. He could tell by the way he no longer smelled like alcohol and decay and actually spent his days doing things. Sometimes he even slept through the night. The Hell Hound stayed close by his side all the time and if he could, he would have licked the silver-furred man's face in gratitude. The scent of coffee and stress and friendship was becoming increasingly familiar as he stopped by far more often.

  
At first, the Hound thought that this man-cave was a new environment for the Master, but many of the things there smelled like him and others smelled like the Master's friend at the cemetery. Age and nicotine and the air right before a thunderstorm. One part of the cave, the part the Master had only entered once so far, smelled like Fallen and nicotine and sadness and loneliness and the air before a thunderstorm, so the Hound concluded that was where the Master's friend had slept.

  
The Hound liked this man-cave much more than the bedsit they had stayed at before. It was warm and felt like home territory and the Master was much less sad here. In fact, he was filled with much more energy now, a new-found determination to get up and do something.

  
Since they had spent some time in the Master's packmate's territory, the Master had been very busy and very focused on the objects he had removed from there. The Hound knew that they were called books, though he did not quite understand their purpose. As far as he could tell, they were filled with orders from Alphas for all other humans, but there were so many of them and not everyone got the same ones. They were far beyond him, but he watched as the Master selected some books from the many in the man-cave and concluded that humans were allowed to choose their orders.

  
That didn't make any sense to him; surely the Alpha would not permit such a thing? But these humans had always acted strangely to him and did not seem to form packs the same way dogs did, so the Hound did not waste too much time wondering and simply sat and watched and guarded his Master.

  
Some days passed in a quiet manner, with frequent visits from the nice she-human from the cave below. The Master called her Mrs Hudson and the Hound memorized the weird combination of sounds. Humans all called each other by names, he had learned, while he and his brethren simply relied on scent. But human noses were no good at all, they barely noticed anything unless it was right in front of them, so they had to rely on combinations of sounds.

  
The Master, he quickly learned, was called John. He liked that. It was short and uncomplicated as far as sounds went and it almost sounded like a bark when it was shouted.

  
He watched as the Master studied the books and ate and slept and talked to Mrs Hudson and sat with a weird thing on his lap (plastic and metal and electricity) that took up all his attention.

  
Then, when the Hound had just started to think that this was the new routine, the Master woke up one morning and used the man-made waterfall and was very careful about selecting his fur for the day (the Hound was still amazed by the human's ability to change furs all the time because they had almost none of their own). The Hound followed him as he left their cave and walked along hard stone paths to a tunnel with moving metal cages and lots of other humans in it.

  
The Hound did not much like this part of the journey - too many scents, too many humans, no way of knowing if there was danger in the area.

  
They only had to endure a short time in there, though, and he was very relieved when they stepped out into the sunlight. More humans, more metal cages, but also more escape routes should they require one.

  
The Master seemed to know exactly where he was going and the Hound followed him faithfully as he wound his way through throngs of humans and past several angels, who turned to stare after the Master as they noticed the Hell Hound at his heels. None of them dared to intercept them, but the Hound kept an eye on them until they were out of sight all the same.

  
Finally, they arrived at their Master's destination - another man-cave, of course. This one was bigger and had more humans in it and it smelled strange. Latex and rubber and the same chemicals Mrs Hudson put in the water when she cleaned their home-cave. But this place also smelled of illness and blood and impending death. He did not like it.

  
The Master ignored it all and approached a she-human in sweeping white fur who greeted him by his name and hugged him. The Hound moved closer, sniffing her leg to make sure she was no threat and to see if he had met her before. Soap and rubber and latex and herbs and friendship. No, he had not met her before, but the Master appeared to know her.

  
They went into a separate part of the cave and sat down and the Master showed her some papers with tiny symbols on them that the Hound thought were more orders, though he did not know who had given them to the Master. The she-human took them and looked at them and nodded and bared her teeth in that weird friendly way humans used instead of wagging their tails (probably because they had none).

  
Some of the stress evaporated from the Master's scent and got replaced by relief and determination and a sense of purpose and the Hound was glad.

  
They returned to their home-cave soon afterward, but from then on, the Master frequently travelled to the other cave and sat in a separate part of it and waited for humans to come see him and the Hound, who always accompanied him, soon understood that they were all sick or injured and the Master would look at them and poke and prod and ask questions and most of them were less scared or upset when they left. Sometimes the Master saw the same human several times and talked to them in a very serious voice and there was always sadness and fear in the room on those occasions. The Hound noticed that these were the humans who were most sick of all.

  
Others came back and were better and the Master was pleased about that. So were they, and they sometimes brought him gifts and smelled like appreciation and relief and the Hound understood that the Master was making them better. The Master was healing people. The Master was a good human, good and kind and sad and very important. Protecting him was vital. Guarding him was something the Hound was glad to do.

  
He just wished the Master's packmate would come back soon. The Master missed him still and would call his name in his sleep almost every night and then he would howl in that way humans did, salty water leaking from his eyes and his breath coming in strange gasps and huffs and his heart sounded as if it might break.

  
But the Master's packmate was far away, he knew, and could not come back. Not yet.


	25. Part 6 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments! Let's play a game of "spot the reference" and see what Sherlock has been up to...

**Part VI**

 

 

_"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."_  
_\- Edna St. Vincent Millay_

  
**Chapter 1**

 

Sweat ran down the man's body in rivulets, making his skin slick and stinging in his eyes whenever his eyebrows could not catch it. His chest was heaving as his breath came hard and fast, his entire body trembling from a mix of adrenalin and exhaustion.

  
In contrast, his opponent looked like he had just gotten up from a refreshing nap. His hair and clothes looked a bit rumpled, but otherwise his appearance gave no indication that they had spent the past two hours in fierce hand-to-hand combat.

  
Not a single scratch marred his skin, although the man had certainly tried his best, kicking and punching and fighting harder than he ever had in a training session before. It had not been enough.

  
"Are you going to end this farce anytime soon or do I have time to order tea as I observe?," his boss asked. The question was directed at his opponent, of course.

  
"Don't be a prick," that man replied.

  
Then he moved, quick as a snake, and everything went black.

  
"Well done," Mycroft said, clapping his hands slowly. "But please, do try not to concuss my men too badly, I still require them to function to their full abilities. You almost broke your last opponent's back."

  
"It's hardly my fault if you insist on having me train with weaklings," Sherlock told him, calmly fixing his shirtcuffs and taking a big step over his latest opponent's sweaty, unconscious form. "But I do agree with you, much as it pains me to admit it. When are we going to end this farce?"

  
"Whenever you are ready, of course."

  
"I _am_ ready," he insisted, grinding his teeth in frustration. "I have been ready for weeks."

  
"So you claim." Mycroft didn't bat an eye. "But it has been years since you were involved in any serious fighting, brother mine. It would be very negligent of me to let you enter any situation unprepared."

  
"Would it? Be serious, what is the worst that could possibly happen?," Sherlock sneered. "Oh, I know, maybe I'll get killed. Like that's going to happen."

  
"Indeed." His detestable brother remained unperturbed. "You might, however, be recognised and someone might come to certain conclusions and-"

  
"And they would be _wrong_ ," Sherlock angrily interrupted him. "No one is ever going to just guess the truth, now, are they?"

  
"True enough. _However_ , that does not mean that their wrong conclusions might not lead them to wonder about other things. We wouldn't want anyone to get any ideas pertaining to John Watson, would we?"

  
There was nothing he could say to that, as Mycroft knew full well. He would not risk endangering John in any way, and if the wrong person were to figure out his identity, they might decide that the terms on which John's life had been spared that day at St. Bart's had not been met. And then it would be open season on the one man Sherlock had sacrificed everything for.

  
He couldn't - wouldn't - let that happen.

  
"No," he sighed. A spoken acquiescense to his brother's superior logic was unnecessary, but he gave it anyway. If John had taught him anything, it was that sometimes you had to give a little in order to get something back. And he desperately needed what Mycroft had the power to give.

  
"Will that be all?"

  
He really wanted some time alone now - spending all morning beating Mycroft's men to a pulp was not among his preferred pastimes. He would much rather spend his time doing more research, planning his next move. Too much time had been wasted with these exercises already.

  
"You do know that you have my full support, don't you?," his brother asked.

  
Sherlock, already halfway out the door, froze, then turned around slowly. His incredulity must have shown plainly on his face, for Mycroft sighed and came very close to shuffling his feet - a habit he had been fighting to break for over two millennia.

  
"You are my brother," Mycroft informed him as if that was somehow news to Sherlock. "And regardless of what you may think of me, I will always try my best to do what is right by you."

  
From anyone else, the words may have sounded pompous and unfeeling, but coming from Mycroft they were the equivalent of a violent ebulliency.

  
Sherlock blinked, struggling to overcome his surprise, then nodded once. "Noted."

  
He left before his brother had the chance to embarrass either of them any further.

  
The following hours were spent in his room, searching the Internet and a bunch of very secret databases for crumbs of information on Moriarty's network. There had to be hints, patterns and connections that would become visible if only he looked long enough. Moriarty had been clever, yes, but he had also been prone to little inside jokes that only he would understand. He and, in some cases, Sherlock.

  
Calling himself Rich Brook had been a prime example of that, an inside joke they would both get. Using the same poison on Carl Powers and Connie Prince was another fine example. And wasn't it interesting how they even shared the same initials?

  
If he searched long and hard enough, Sherlock was certain that other such neat coincidences would spring up, connecting seemingly random crimes. He just had to find them.

  
After sending a quick e-mail detailing his request to Anthea, who would in turn set Mycroft's minions to work on collecting every scrap of information on all kinds of criminal occurrences over the planet, Sherlock set to work.

  
*****

 

"May I take your luggage, sir?"

  
"I'd rather you didn't. This is all of it and I am quite capable of carrying it myself, thank you."

  
"Oh, I don't mind," the steward gave him a cheerful grin. "Mum says I'm no good for anything but even I can't do too much harm to luggage." His face fell a bit. "Unless there's something expensive in it."

  
Sherlock suppressed a sigh. "As it happens, there _is_ something expensive in this bag."

  
"Ohhhhhh," the steward looked at his carry-on bag as if he thought it contained unimaginable treasures. Sherlock was sure that, regardless of the adjective, the boy was trying to imagine them all in just this moment. "Is it gold?"

  
_'How very inspired'_ Sherlock thought. "No. In fact, it's a camera."

  
"Oh, all right." The young man nodded, rather more enthusiastically than the topic of conversation warranted. "Mum's got a camera but she won't let me touch it. I get to use these funny yellow ones. They're _brilliant_!"

  
Sherlock, who had seen those cameras and also knew what the one in his bag was capable of, found that he could not agree with him.

  
Just then, an elderly woman with a stern face entered the private lounge of the airport. "Arthur, I clearly recall telling you to get our passenger's luggage, bring it on board, store it safely away, and not say anything beyond 'How may I help you?' - _why_ are you standing around, not holding any luggage at all, chattering away? I'm sure Mr-" She paused, apparently having forgotten Sherlock's name.

  
"Sigerson," he interjected.

  
"Yes, quite right," the woman agreed as if she had simply been checking whether he knew his own name. "Now where was I? Ah, yes - I'm sure Mr Sigerson does not wish to hear whatever you were just telling him."

  
"Yes, Mum. I mean - no, Mum," Arthur said. "He doesn't want me to carry his luggage, though."

  
The woman turned and looked at Sherlock with a gaze that would have made Mycroft consider hiring her as an interrogator. "Is that so?"

  
He put on his most convincing smile. "The bag contains my camera, Mrs Knapp-Shappey," he explained, making it clear that _he_ had not forgotten any names. "It is quite expensive and I prefer carrying it personally. There is no further luggage."

  
She blinked in surprise. "You booked us just to fly you and your camera from Fitton to Rome?"

  
"Yes," he confirmed. "Well, and a change of clothes, obviously." Time to fall back on the cover story he and Mycroft had prepared for just such an occasion. "I'm a photographer and my work frequently requires me to travel to places where bigger luggage would be a hindrance."

  
"Woaaaah," Arthur breathed. "Do you travel a lot?"

  
"All the time," Sherlock told him.

  
" _Brilliant!_ I wish _I_ could travel to loads of places!"

  
"Arthur, you do travel to lots of places already!," his mother admonished him. "Only last week we were in Taipei, remember?"

  
"Yeah, but that doesn't count," Arthur said. "I didn't take any pictures."

  
"You take pictures of _everything_ , Arthur. You took a picture of your shoes on the hotel balcony, for heaven's sake!" Mrs Knapp-Shappey threw up her arms in exasperation before turning back to Sherlock, who had observed the entire exchange in growing puzzlement.

  
"Anyway, Mr Sigerson, welcome to MJN Air. If you would accompany my son and I to the plane, we will be ready for take-off in half an hour."

  
He re-adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and followed the woman out of the lounge and onto the airfield, toward an aeroplane that looked like something even the Wright brothers would not have flown with. He tried to imagine flying all the way to Taipei in this contraption and shuddered.

  
Mycroft had ordered Anthea to find a flight that would allow Sherlock to travel as inconspicuously as possible and at the same time allow him to read classified documents without anyone being able to read over his shoulder. How his brother's chief assistant had come up with MJN Air was beyond him, but the self-proclaimed 'airdot' certainly met the criteria. Sherlock's only hope was that the plane wouldn't fall apart before they even made it to the runway.

  
His confidence in the company was not increased by meeting the pilots.

  
"These are Captain Martin Crieff and First Officer Douglas Richardson," the stern CEO introduced them and Sherlock was forced to shake hands with the two men and make small talk, because that was what Mr Sigerson did.

  
"Nice weather for flying today, is it not, Captain?," he asked the small, red-haired man.

  
The man's face immediately turned the same shade as his hair. "No, _I'm_ the Capt- oh." He broke off, realising that Sherlock had indeed addressed him. "You noticed?"

  
"You bear a Captain's stripes and hat, hardly a difficult leap to make," Sherlock pointed out. His gaze went back and forth between the small man and his First Officer, a distinguished-looking gentleman who would not have been out of place in one of Mycroft's detestable clubs. Sherlock took one look at the man's shrewd eyes and decided that he was one to keep an eye on. In fact, it might be best to deduce all four of them just in case.

  
The First Officer was easy - married and divorced three times, recovering alcoholic, used to fly for a prestigious airline before getting sacked (probably for stealing), intelligent and cunning, easy subject to bribery, frequently engaged in illegal acts but usually got away with it. The Captain was hardly going to be trouble, on the other hand - surprisingly poor for a pilot, awkward and suffering from a severe lack of self-esteem, coupled with strong moral principles and a tendency to let himself be bullied into anything by his First Officer and most likely also the CEO.

  
That woman was a tough nut to crack as far as characters went. He could read her failed marriages easily enough, as well as her struggle to keep up the pretense of being wealthy while fighting to keep her company afloat - or rather, aflight -, all coupled with a fierce independence and enough determination to make men cower in fear. Sherlock found himself wishing she would go into politics, just so he could enjoy Mycroft's reaction.

  
As for the steward ... well, Sherlock had met many morons over the years but few of them had managed to somehow maintain a child-like innocence and _joie de vivre_ \- particularly when in the company of people such as these. It was quite the miracle, really.

  
Once they had finally all made it on board the plane, Sherlock found himself a seat by the window in the very back, carefully putting the messenger bag that was his only luggage on the seat next to him. It was true what he had told the steward - there was a camera in there. A very expensive one, too, as well as some other equipment.

  
After some consideration, he and Mycroft had decided that the most useful cover story would be for him to assume the identity of a photographer working for an online magazine (it had suddenly appeared online a week ago but even the most determined investigator would find hints of its existence going as far back as 2007). Jonah Sigerson was of half-English, half-Swedish descent, had a flat in London and one in Stockholm, and frequently travelled the globe to take all sorts of photographs of people and places to be published in the aforementioned magazine.

  
He was tall and slender, had short auburn hair and preferred to dress in jeans, stylish jumpers, sneakers and a leather jacket. Mr Sigerson was also friendly and polite and had a good eye for detail, which was important in a photographer and therefore wouldn't raise any eyebrows.

  
The hardest part had been cutting and dyeing his hair, but Sherlock was nothing if not determined and it was frankly amazing how such a small change could alter his entire appearance. The different hair colour automatically made his eyes shift away from their usual silvery blue-green and more towards the green spectrum. He didn't even need contact lenses to accomplish the change. That was all the better; he hated the things.

  
The seat creaked as he leaned back, making him wince. Was there anything about this plane that didn't require immediate replacement? He already knew the entire crew was about as professional as a group of kindergarteners, so the answer was probably 'no'.

  
Mercifully, he was left alone until after the surprisingly uneventful take-off. He spent the time staring out of the window, watching England slowly shrinking and fading away until the plane got swallowed by clouds and his chosen home lay hidden from view. As the plane ascended beyond the clouds, he couldn't help but glare. He knew what it felt like to soar high above the clouds, carried by the strength of his own wings. In comparison, airplanes were detestable, terrible contraptions at the best of times and he hated flying in them with a passion.

  
Angrily, he pulled down the plastic screen to cover the window and decided to re-read what information he and Mycroft's minions had gathered on suspicious activities in Rome. He had barely reached towards his bag when he got interrupted by the Steward.

  
"Would you like a cup, sir?"

  
Sherlock decided to leave the documents well out of sight and gave the young man an inquisitive look. "Why would I want a cup?"

  
"To have a drink," Arthur - that was his name, wasn't it? - said easily. "I used to offer a nice cup of hot coffee but Douglas and Skip complained that it wasn't nice. Or hot. Or tasted like coffee. Soooo ... cup?"

  
"You wouldn't happen to have tea, would you?," Sherlock asked.

  
The steward looked much relieved. "I do! I've got Earl Grey - that's brilliant, it's like drinking it will make you a Duke! - and chamomile, but I only have that when I'm sick and it makes me more sick, and then there's Arthur's Special-Tea. I invented that, that's why it's _Arthur's_ Special-Tea. Because that's me. I'm Arthur! Hello! ... You could try some of that, I suppose - the tea, not my name. No one else will."

  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "And what kind of tea is that Special-Tea of yours?" He already had some suspicions lined up.

  
Arthur actually stuck out his tongue as he tried to recall the ingredients. "Oh, a bit of everything that tastes good, really. I put in some mint leaves and a squished strawberry - I like strawberries but Mum says I can't eat any because I'm allergic - and raspberries because I like making them on my arm and they're also berries - isn't that brilliant?! - and honey because I always put honey in tea and if you want I can add rum - that's what Mum always does with hers."

  
Sherlock was just about to say something - though he wasn't quite sure what - when something occurred to the eager steward. "Oh, and I use lemonade instead of water because lemonade tastes better and it's really brilliant if you want to burp the alphabet."

  
Several moments of silence passed in which Sherlock tried to wrap his mind around the idea of why anyone would do such a thing to a cup of tea and in which Arthur stared at him with the eager-to-please look of a small dog who had just discovered a ball in his Master's hand. He looked seconds away from panting.

  
"I ... think I might like to give that Special-Tea a try," Sherlock said slowly, as much to his own amazement as Arthur's.

  
The steward positively beamed. " _Brilliant_! One cup of Arthur's, I mean, mine, I mean, you know, _Arthur's_ Special-Tea, coming right up for you, sir!"

  
He definitely skipped on his way to the galley.

  
MJN Air's only passenger spent the following minutes wondering if it was at all possible for him to die of poisoned tea and trying to imagine what Mycroft would say if he learned what had happened. His brother's face alone would be worth the risk, he decided.

  
Arthur arrived ten minutes later with the tea, his mother in tow. Apparently, he had bragged about their passenger actually requesting his Special-Tea, for Mrs Knapp-Shappey looked at Sherlock with a mixture of suspicion and amazement, as well as no small hint of trepidation. "I'm afraid I must inform you that neither MJN Air nor any members of the crew can be held responsible in case of a passenger poisoning himself," she told him and looked much relieved once she had made her point.

  
Sherlock felt something that came dangerously close to pity for Arthur. If that was how his enthusiasm for life was rewarded all the time, the boy deserved a break. If John were here, he would do anything in his power to cheer the steward up. Since he wasn't - a fact of which Sherlock was only too painfully aware - he would have to step up himself.

  
He accepted the cup with a muttered 'thank you', sniffed it once and then carefully lifted it to his lips. Both Arthur and Mrs Knapp-Shappey held their breaths.

  
He took a sip.

  
Then he waited for a moment or two, to give his taste buds a chance to recover from the shock.

  
"Uh ... that tastes .... quite ... fascinating," he finally said. "You, uh, you wouldn't mind making some more for me, would you? I happen to know someone who would be _very_ interested in a taste of this ... this Special-Tea."

  
In fact, he was sure that Mycroft would be more than happy to buy the rights to the recipe off Arthur in order to use it for torturing information out of uncooperative captives.

  
Arthur looked about ready to faint. "You ... you like it?! You actually like it?"

  
"Er ... yes," Sherlock said, taking another sip for confirmation. "I do indeed."

  
It wasn't half bad if you had enough brain power to overcome your taste buds' complaints and focus on the chemical composition, actually.

  
"Mum! He likes it! Mr Sigerson likes my tea!"

  
Suddenly, Sherlock felt unable to help himself. "It's brilliant," he said, in the most serious tone he could manage.

  
Arthur whooped and ran towards the cockpit to inform the pilots of his Special-Tea's success and 'Mr Sigerson' was left alone with the steward's mother.

  
"You can spit it out now," was the first thing she said. "I certainly won't be the one to tell him."

  
Sherlock stared at her. "Spit out what? The tea? Why would I?" Good Lord, did this woman really expect him to do that? He took another sip just to spite her. It was certainly the most special cup of tea he had ever had - which was saying something.

  
"You can't possibly mean to tell me that you actually liked that."

  
"I believe I already did," he pointed out, finally starting to lose his patience with her.

  
"If you insist on risking your health, fine. Just remember that MJN Air or any member of the crew can not-"

  
"-be held responsible, yes. I heard you the first time."

  
She huffed a breath. "Good. Enjoy your tea, sir, and do yourself a favour and don't ask for any Fuzzy Yoghurt or Surprising Rice. For the sake of the cleaning crew - namely Arthur himself - if nothing else."

  
Having seen what Arthur was capable of doing to a cup of tea, Sherlock could hazard a guess as to what Fuzzy Yoghurt was, and Surprising Rice was rather self-explanatory. He was reasonably certain that he did not want any of the surprises that dish had in store for the eater. It would probably come as quite a surprise to the digestive tract as well.

  
"Fine," he said. "Will you leave me alone with my tea now? I've got work to do."

  
"You're a photographer! What on earth could you possibly be working on up here?"

  
"Research," he said coldly. "If all there was to photography was to press the release, don't you think more people would be working in the business?"

  
To make his point, he pulled a heavy file from his messenger bag and opened it to a map of Rome. "Time is of the essence, so I shall have to travel to and from locations as quickly as possible, which is made easier if I know where they are in advance."

  
Muttering to herself about people being incorrigibly beyond help, she walked away, probably to rant about him to her pilots. Sherlock didn't mind. He thought he had been rather polite, considering the circumstances. Not a single word about her failed marriage or her new relationship with a pilot working for another airline. He hadn't even commented on her parenting abilities. John would be proud.

  
The thought of John made something in his chest clench painfully and he had to take several deep breaths through his mouth to wrestle the feeling back down. He couldn't afford to behave like this. Not now. The cemetery had been meant to bring him closure, to see John one last time. He hadn't expected the pain to follow him, much as the agony in his back had been his constant companion from the moment his wings had been torn from his body.

  
In a way, this felt worse.

  
*****

  
The air was blazing hot as he stepped out of the plane and descended the stairs, his bag casually slung over his left shoulder. Sherlock had donned sunglasses, not so much because of the blinding light but because that's what people did in Rome. They allowed him to fit in with the crowd and were an additional disguise - useful even if he did not actually require them.

  
"Mr Sigerson!"

  
He turned and watched as Arthur came bouncing down the steps, apparently unbothered by the heat. He was holding a to-go cup. "I thought you might want some more Arthur's - my - Special-Tea. It's fine if you don't, people don't always tell the truth when they want to be polite but you weren't very polite earlier so maybe you want some more, so I made some."

  
In his eagerness he almost stumbled over his words.

  
"Thank you," Sherlock said, for lack of anything else to say, and accepted the styrofoam cup. "That's ... very kind of you."

  
Arthur looked torn between delight and embarrassment. "Can I ask you something? It's just, I've been wanting to ask the entire time but Mum says I shouldn't bother the passengers and she wouldn't understand anyway and I don't want to be a bother, but I wanted to know and if I ask maybe you'll tell me and I won't have to go on not knowing anymore."

  
"Oh, just spit it out, will you?" Sherlock found himself quickly losing patience with the ramblings of the steward. Now that he was in Italy, he wanted to get on with the Work as quickly as possible.

  
Arthur stared at him, tried to speak, closed his mouth again, then blurted: "Do you work for the Pope?"

  
Sherlock blinked. "What? Why?"

  
"It's just, I know he lives here - the Pope, I mean - and he's very religious - of course he is, he's the Pope! - and I thought maybe you work for him because, you know, you're ..." He trailed of, making a vague fluttering notion with his hands.

  
Oh.

  
_'Of course,'_ Sherlock thought. _'Stupid. Should have known. Children frequently see and a mind can hardly get more child-like than his.'_

  
"I don't work for the Pope," he said firmly.

  
The steward's face fell. "Oh. Well, if you, you know, see him, or, um, God ... could you maybe ask about Blinky?"

  
Sherlock found he was quickly losing track of the conversation. "Who?"

  
"Blinky," Arthur repeated. "My goldfish. He died last week. I'm very sad about him but if you could maybe find out if he's got a nice bowl in Heaven I'll feel a lot better about it. And maybe, if you can, you could tell him I only wanted to make his water bluer, like the ocean, so he wouldn't be homesick, and I didn't know food colouring was bad for him."

  
By the end of his speech, he had tears in his eyes.

  
Several seconds passed in which Sherlock stared down at the young man, trying to figure out if he was being made fun of. But Arthur appeared absolutely sincere. Now, what was the correct response?

  
His first thought was _'I'm not a bloody carrier pigeon!'_ but that seemed rather unkind and Sherlock had been met with enough unkindness of that sort to last him a lifetime. Also, he kind of liked the steward.

  
Before he could find an appropriate response, Arthur was already talking again.

  
"I mean, there's got the be a Heaven, obviously. Right? And Blinky will be there, won't he? Pets are allowed in Heaven, aren't they? They have to be, what's the point in Heaven if you don't get to have pets?"

  
Sherlock decided to go with the truth, as far as he knew it. "Of course there are pets," he said gently. "All kinds of animals, really. But they don't need cages or a bowl. Your, uh, Blinky, will be perfectly happy in a pond with other goldfish. And I'm sure he won't be holding a grudge against you."

  
There. That was good, right?

  
Arthur beamed - and hugged him.

  
Sherlock almost dropped his bag in shock, stumbling back an involuntary step at the unexpected attack on his person.

  
"Thank you," the steward said, letting go and stepping back. "Have a nice trip. I hope you take many pretty pictures, Mr Sigerson." There was a short pause, then Arthur seemed to remember his duty as a steward. "Thank you for flying MJN Air."

  
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. "Thank you, Arthur. I am sure our paths shall cross again sometime. Good luck."

  
He turned and entered the small airport's air-conditioned building, walking past the luggage claim and out on the other side. A rental car was already waiting for him and in his bag he had the details of small hotel where a room had been booked in the name of Jonah Sigerson.

  
He revved the engine and drove off without a backwards glance.

  
*****

 

It took Sherlock exactly ten minutes in Roman traffic to decide that his car - a tiny Fiat Punto - was not at all suitable for his purposes. By the time he reached his hotel two hours and lots of Italian swearing and car honking later, he was quite determined not to get back into that terrible contraption again. He left it in the parking lot, called Mycroft over a secure line and told him to have the thing removed and replaced with a vehicle to his own specifications.

  
He then spent several hours in his room, having a shower and changing into a lighter shirt, checking his equipment as well as studying the detailed map of Rome again. Once he was certain that he had committed it to memory, he opened his laptop and did some research on traffic reports and road construction works in the city. Chasing criminals all over London had quickly taught him to always be up to date on such things, and, well, it had been a long time since he had last been in Rome.

  
Finally, after the sun had set and the air was a bit cooler, he left his hotel, deposited his key at the reception and walked onto the hotel's parking lot.

  
The Fiat Punto was gone and in its place stood the exact vehicle Sherlock had asked for: a previously used, slightly dirty Kawasaki W650 in mint condition and with the key already inserted. The bike looked a bit old-fashioned for current standards but managed a top speed of 180 kilometres per hour. And 50 HP were nothing to be frowned upon, either, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

  
Slinging the strap of his bag over his head so it rested diagonally across his chest for extra security, Sherlock mounted the bike, turned the key and kicked the engine into gear. He had left his leather jacket (uncomfortable in this heat and oddly short in comparison to his beloved Belstaff) in his room and the warm air on his neck and arms felt like a gentle caress.

  
From the moment motorbikes had been invented, Sherlock had made a point of keeping up with their development, frequently driving one when the urge struck. It felt almost like flying, in a way, racing ahead just above the ground at top speed. He loved it and in the middle of a city it was far more inconspicuous than spreading his wings and actually flying had always been.

  
During his residency at Baker Street, he had sometimes considered getting a motorbike, but in the end he had always decided against it. John would have considered him suicidal for driving a death trap in London traffic and would have nagged him about it constantly. Or he might have insisted on coming along for the rides, adrenalin-junkie that he was, and Sherlock didn't want to think about what John's body pressed so close to his own would do to him. So, no bike.

  
_'Once I make it back home, I'll get one,'_ he thought to himself. _'Once I'm home, all bets are off.'_

  
This was how he kept himself sane - by imagining the future he was going to have once he finished his mission. But first, he would have to do his job, dismantle Moriarty's network and eliminate any lingering threat to John's life.

  
It was a Monday night, already past eleven, and the streets were less busy than they had been during the daytime. At first, Sherlock kept close to his hotel, driving up and down every street and alley in the vicinity to get a feel of the area - a map was all nice and dandy, but there was nothing to personal experience. Gradually, he increased the distance, familiarising himself first with the immediate neighbourhood and then the borough. Tomorrow, he would freshen up on his knowledge of the rest of the city and the day after that explore the most prominent places and landmarks on foot. Where there were many tourists, criminals were never far.

  
Sherlock soon discovered that, although he had prepared extensively for this trip, he was still wholly unprepared for the memories the familiar buildings awoke.

  
Of course, Rome had changed a lot in the past millennia, but some buildings had survived and still hinted at what the city had once looked like, an eternity ago, when Rome had been the capital of the known world, a sprawling metropolis brimming with life and art and history being made every day.

  
He came by the Roman Forum, parked his bike in the Via dei Cerchi, crossed the Piazza di Sant' Anastasia, and spent the rest of the night walking the ruins of the place. He still knew every corner and every building, even those that were long gone. He remembered with perfect precision where everything had been, having spent many hours of his life roaming the streets connecting government buildings and temples. He had learned a lot about human behaviour there, about how to tell a high-ranking member of the Senate from a low-ranking one, how to tell who had how many slaves and how they treated them, who was using the bathhouses to meet with a secret lover ... Sherlock knew it all.

  
There had been little else to do but watch people while his brother spent his days in endless debates in the Senate, perfecting his ability of manipulating people to do what he wanted without anyone noticing he was pulling the strings. More than one famous emperor of Rome had acted on bright ideas he was convinced were his own, while Sherlock was the only one who knew for a fact that Mycroft had spent months, sometimes years or even decades, setting everything up just so.

  
Smiling to himself, Sherlock wondered what John would say if he knew that all those times he had preferred to spend the day wrapped in a sheet and nothing else was merely his way of reminiscing a time long gone.

  
Then he remembered that John wasn't there and even if he was he couldn't tell him any of this. The pain took his breath away and he doubled over in mid-step, wrapping his arms around himself in a desperate effort to hold himself together. Before he knew it, he was on his knees, alone in the Roman Forum in the middle of the night, surrounded by the ruins of his former life, silent witnesses to the way the world had changed while he remained the same.

  
Except not anymore. He had changed as well. The jury was still out on whether it was for the better.

  
Unfortunately, one of the side-effects of the changes John had wrought on him (of course it was his fault, who else could possibly be responsible?) was that Sherlock was fighting a constant war against himself. He knew it was vital that he stay far away from John and London and anything relating to his life there, and that he had to finish the mission he was just beginning, no matter the cost.

  
Yet part of him longed to turn and go home. He would walk the entire way if he had to, he would swim across the channel if that was what was required. Anything to get back to John. Being away from him felt far worse than Sherlock had anticipated. Barely three weeks had passed since he had last seen John at the cemetery, and he missed him keenly.

  
Knowing that it might be another four to six months until he would see him again, maybe even longer, only made it worse.

  
Sherlock shuddered and gasped for air, pressing both palms against the ancient stones he used to walk on. The sensation of rough stone beneath his hands grounded him and he took several deep breaths before managing to push himself to his feet again.

  
"Pathetic," he muttered to himself. "I've walked these streets long before even his great-great-great-grandparents were alive, there is no reason why it should make a difference now."

  
Of course love had a way of completely disregarding any form of logic.

  
*****

 

In the end, Sherlock found them in the House of the Vestal Virgins. Or rather, in what was left of it.

  
It took the better part of a week to find someone who was willing to trade information for money, and then another two weeks of observing several members of the group until he had identified the one who was easiest to follow. After that, it was only a matter of melting into the crowd (not at all difficult to do when you were a photographer in Rome) and following in the man's wake at a reasonable distance. It was almost laughably easy.

  
Perhaps that should have tipped him off, but Sherlock was confident that the group was relatively harmless as far as criminal organisations went.

  
Twenty minutes later, with another man's hand wrapped around his throat and a second man punching him in the kidneys, he was forced to admit that maybe his assessment of the situation had been a tiny bit premature.

  
Either way, he forced his body to crumble to the ground, his breathing coming in a ragged, pained huff.

  
He made sure to tinge his Italian with a healthy dose of a Northern European accent as he begged for mercy, explained he had been hoping they might have a little something for him to buy, and generally fed them a bunch of lies.

  
In the end, it was enough to make them decide to drag him to their boss. Both of them were equally unwilling to have a murder on their hands - killing tourists always caused such a fuss and their boss would certainly not be happy with them for that.

  
Sherlock thought it was quite amusing that the meeting place of a rather unimpressive Roman street gang used to be the house in which the holiest priestesses had once dwelt - the Vestal Virgins had been highly respected and honoured by everyone and spent thirty years of their lives in the service of Vesta, goddess of home and hearth. To hurt them meant a death sentence, while a man sentenced to death who saw a Vestal on his way to his execution was pardoned. Sherlock had known some of them personally and had usually found them to be intelligent and educated, but most of all gentle.

  
And now the ruins of their house and temple served as a meeting place for common gangsters.

  
_'Ah, Coelia Concordia, if only you could see what has become of your home,_ ' he thought wistfully.

  
They had been friends, once upon a time. She had been the last Vestalis Maxima, chief priestess, and had only stepped down from her post three years after the temple of Vesta had been closed by Theodosius I. in 391. Funny how some names and details just got stuck in the brain and never left. Coelia would have had quite a lot to say about the state of her home and beloved temple.

  
Sherlock focused on those memories of a time long past as his captors dragged and shoved him along the way towards their hiding spot.

  
They were morons, really. If they had any brains at all, they would have called their boss and told him of the suspicious man they had captured and asked him to come meet them instead of revealing their hiding place. Oh well, Sherlock was certainly the last to complain about such carelessness. If this was the beginning of a trend that would continue for the rest of his mission, he would be only too glad about it.

  
As they rounded a corner and brought him into the House of the Vestral Virgins proper, one of the two men holding him gave his arm a nasty wrench and Sherlock hissed in pain as he felt his shoulder dislocate. Oh, they were playing dirty now. Well, they would pay for that later. He turned his head a little, just enough to give the man a pained and affronted look. "What was that for?," he demanded in Italian.

  
"Just showing you who the boss is," the man replied easily.

  
_'Oh, I'll show you all right,'_ Sherlock thought, making a mental note to leave this one for last unless someone worse came along.

  
Some of his defiance must have shown on his face, for a moment later he was lying on the ground as someone repeatedly kicked him in the ribs and the soft flesh of his stomach. He curled around the foot, trying to lessen the force of the impact, but his success was limited and it still hurt enough to leave him breathless. When the kicks finally subsided, he lay there panting.

  
"Why did you do that?!," the second man - much younger than the other, barely more than a boy, really - asked in a shaky voice. Sherlock recalled distantly that the boy had barely touched him after the initial attack, merely holding on to his left arm and making sure he came along. His grip hadn't even been all that forceful. Most likely he was nothing but a kid who had fallen in with the wrong crowd and didn't like it one bit.

  
The other man, however ... "I didn't like the look on his face," he said, shrugging, as if that was enough of a reason to kick someone repeatedly in the stomach. Sherlock cemented his earlier decision.

  
Luckily, there was no opportunity for further violence, because once they had dragged him a couple more steps along the way, the older one called out part of the code and received a corresponding answer from someone hidden in the shadows. Moments later, three more men stepped into the moonlit area of the ruins. Some of the pillars still stood, supporting nothing where once there had been a ceiling, and their long shadows created a strange black-and-almost-black striped pattern on the ground. It made it difficult to see, letting the eyes play tricks on the mind.

  
Sherlock decided that was an advantage, taking in everyone's positions with one quick glance and getting ready to calculate their movements, should it become necessary.

  
"Who is this, then?," a broad-shouldered brute - obviously the leader - demanded in rapid Italian and strode forward.

  
"We caught him sneaking around the temple, boss. He claims he wants to buy some stuff."

  
"Stuff, eh?," the boss repeated, grasping Sherlock's jaw and wrenching his head up to look into his face. Sherlock tried to look suitably terrified. "What kind of stuff? Does he speak Italian?"

  
"A little," Sherlock responded in the same language, keeping the accent in place and forcing the words out around the hand still firmly holding his jaw. "I need ... please ... some cocaine, if you have." It was all too easy to inject the need in his voice, to put the plea in his eyes and every muscle of his body, to let the craving come to the surface.

  
But the boss had not become both boss of this pathetic group and part of Moriarty's network by being an idiot. In the end, suspicion won out over business.

  
Sherlock could see the change in the man's stance and anticipated the fist to the stomach. He curved his body around it, minimising the force of the impact and huffing out a breath as if he had been hit far worse than he had - it would fool anyone but the guy throwing the punch himself, so he was in no way surprised when the other two let go of his arms and allowed him to drop to the ground.

  
At least that was what they thought he would do.

  
It only took a second to shove the young, harmless one away and head-first against a pillar, well out of the way, and to whirl around and break the boss's neck. Mycroft had already assured him that this was a small group with no further connections, not enough to warrant extracting information.

  
Originally, Sherlock had intended to keep his other captor for last, but the two remaining men were approaching fast while he was still staring at the corpse of his boss. Sherlock took pity on him and smashed his adam's apple in, lodging it in his trachea and leaving him to claw at his throat as he suffocated. The other two men were prepared for a fight but still calculated the odds of being 2:1 in their favour, which was a gross mathematical error. They ended up dead on the floor before they had time to correct it.

  
Breathing hard, Sherlock turned to look back at the young man he had shoved aside, who was just regaining consciousness and staring at the scene in front of him in terror.

  
"Are there more?," Sherlock demanded, taking two long strides towards him. "More members of the gang, yes or no?"

  
"N-no," the boy stammered. "S-some connections, some sm-small dealers, no-nobody else." Lord, the boy was terrified.

  
"Good," Sherlock said. "And I'm sure you aren't really here, either, are you? Certainly you were not part of this group, isn't that correct?"

  
He may be afraid, but he was not stupid. "N-no, signore."

  
"Very good. I shall be on my way, then," Sherlock told him calmly. "Go home and do something useful with your life, unless you want to-"

  
The boy never learned the end of that sentence because that was the moment when lightning struck.

  
At least that was what it looked like. There was a flash of light, engulfing Sherlock within it, and for one long, terrible and beautiful moment, the young Italian saw who he had just been talking to. For a moment that seemed to last forever, he saw everything.

  
Then the light disappeared as quickly as it had come and the stranger was gone. The young man scrambled up, looked around for fear of someone having appeared behind him all of a sudden, turned and ran for the hills. The next day, he told his mother he wanted to become a priest.


	26. Part 6 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

What hit him first was the cold.

  
He was lying on his back, staring up at a sky that was so blue it hurt the eyes, and it was incredibly, painfully cold. The air, the ground beneath him, everything. Sherlock was reasonably sure that, had the air not been quite so dry, his breath might have been used for building igloos.

  
Groaning, he sat up, a thick blanket of snow crunching beneath him as he moved.

  
Sherlock cursed. At length.

  
He had been in Rome, for heaven's sake! This, he was quite certain, was not Rome. He looked around, squinting against the overwhelming brightness of the snow and the sky and the sun and the icy air. Definitely not Rome.

  
Rome may have been erected on seven hills, but he knew for a fact that these seven hills were not foothills of the Himalaya. Which, incidentally, was where he was currently sitting.

  
What hit him next was the silence.

  
There was absolutely no sound at all. No background noise. No traffic, no humming of electricity or heating, not a single sound that so much as hinted at human life.

  
When he moved, snow crunched and churned beneath him and he had never known snow could be that loud. There was no wind, which was quite interesting and certainly not normal, but the air was cold enough without it and Sherlock looked down at himself and sighed. Perhaps thin trousers and a light white shirt were not the best attire for his current location. He shivered.

  
It was cold, after all, and though he knew that the cold was not going to kill him, he did not particularly like it, either. Pins and needles on his skin, all over his body. He shook. Probably best to stand up now, before the snow could soak into his clothes more than it already had. His shirt and pants were clinging to his back, arse and the back of his legs. Cold and uncomfortable. He shuddered again, then looked around.

  
Broad daylight, of course. Impossible to tell his exact location, he had never learned to judge it by looking at the sun. The stars would have been more helpful but he did not particularly want to stay up here until night fell.

  
Craning his head back, he glared up at the sky. "You could have at least returned me to where you took me away from!"

  
The complaint remained unanswered, which was not surprising. He kicked a drift of snow instead, wondering what people would think if anyone came upon this spot before his traces could be eradicated by wind and weather. No footsteps leading to this spot, no disturbance to the snow that would indicate the presence of a helicopter. The traces themselves - shoes that did not belong in the mountains. Shoes that were ordinary footwear for people who spent their days working in offices with central heating.

  
Sherlock grinned, wishing he could see the expressions on their faces when they realised that someone had somehow ended up here, lay about in the snow for a bit, and then left again in equally mysterious ways.

  
Speaking of ... he shielded his eyes against the sun and searched the sky. No aeroplanes to be seen. Perfect.

  
The good thing about being in this godforsaken place - no pun intended - was that no one was around to see what Sherlock did next.

  
Correction.

  
No one was around to see what Sherlock _tried_ to do next.

  
*****

 

Sherlock trudged through the snow, grumbling to himself all the while. Keeping up a constant monologue was the only thing that kept him from screaming his frustration out into the world. This was degrading, annoying and absolutely unnecessary. Really, would it have been that difficult to return him to Rome? He didn't even know how much time had passed, for Heaven's sake!

  
Incidentally, that was the crux of the matter.

  
Heaven.

  
Sherlock sure as hell (ha!) had not intended to go there, and he certainly hadn't expected to be called up for a talk. Maybe he should have, though, all things considered. He wondered if Mycroft knew and why his brother hadn't warned him that this might be a possibility.

  
Then again, perhaps Mycroft had not expected it either. Admittedly, there had not been any reason to consider this event. But here he was, trudging down a mountain in Tibet of all places, towards the only trace of civilisation he had been able to spot from higher up.

  
"And all because a certain someone wanted a nice chat," he muttered angrily, wrapping his arms tighter around his torso. The cold was really getting to him now. Just because he couldn't freeze to death on account of being dead already, he wasn't unbothered.

  
"How about you come down to Earth next time you want to talk?," he asked the empty air around him, watching as his breath formed a white cloud in the air. Suddenly, he was craving a cigarette. Or maybe a whole pack.

  
After the conversation he had just had, he felt like he deserved it.

  
Sherlock was about 98.7 percent sure that no one had ever actually yelled at God before. Lots of people wanted to, of course, and many yelled at the sky or at an altar in church or wherever, but to actually yell into God's face ... no, he didn't think anyone had done that before. They usually lost their nerves when they finally met God. Oh well, another notch on his belt of firsts. And there had been quite a lot of yelling, actually. At one point, he had almost thrown a punch. Almost, mind. He was not actually suicidal - which was quite a statement coming from someone who had jumped off a roof not a month ago.

  
Was it a month? More? He was no longer sure.

  
Time passed differently up there. You could go to Heaven, stay for a week, and return on the same day you had left Earth. Or you could go to Heaven, stay for half an hour, and when you got back half a year had passed. It was impossible to tell what had happened this time. Perhaps he had missed a couple of days. Perhaps weeks. Maybe years.

  
The latter concept made him shiver. This was the Himalaya, it wasn't going to change anytime soon, remaining largely untouched by the passing of time. He might have missed fifty years and not be able to tell.

  
Something tightened in his chest at the very idea. To think that he might have missed it all - that he might have been gone so long that John had grown old and died without ever learning the truth ... but no. If John had died, he would have heard of it while up there. So perhaps he was still alive. Old and grey and brittle, his back and shoulders stooped beneath the weight of the years, his hair mostly gone, limbs aching.

  
Sherlock had to stop and throw himself face-first into a snowdrift, using the shock of the cold wetness to chase the image away.

  
The plan had always been to destroy the network, then return to John as quickly as possible. Suddenly, the choice had been taken from him. He may have missed thirty or forty or fifty years.

  
Panic started clawing at his chest and he struggled upright again, walking on. He needed to find that place he had spotted earlier, to talk to actual people and figure out what year it was. Preferably down to the very date and time.

  
The very idea of having missed all of John's life while being away for less than a month in total was frankly terrifying. His stomach churned at the thought.

  
And all because God had wanted to talk to him about some things. As if there wouldn't be time for all that later, once Sherlock was done with his mission. But of course that didn't stop God from ordering him up for a conversation. The only good thing was that Sherlock now knew some things he hadn't been aware of before. And quite interesting facts they were, too.

  
He bared his teeth in an involuntary snarl as he remembered some of the finer details. Oh, there was going to be hell to pay for certain people once he got his hands on them. And he would, that much was sure. He would hunt them down one by one if he had to. And if, for some reason, he didn't feel like wasting a lot of time, he could always ask Mycroft for help. Surely his brother would have quite a lot to say about what had been going on right under his nose. Insubordination was not something Mycroft took lightly.

  
Thinking of Mycroft ... he wondered if his brother knew what had happened. Had there been eyes on him that night in Rome? He didn't know but he hoped so. Otherwise, his brother was likely to have the entire planet combed for him. And Mycroft had ways of finding Sherlock that went far beyond anything man-made surveillance could do. It was questionable if his means reached all the way to the Himalaya, where no one was around for miles, however. Which was why Sherlock was trudging towards civilisation.  
Finally, just as he was getting tired of walking and felt tempted to try and see how much ground he had left to cover, he caught sight of a rooftop in the distance.

  
It took him a while to reach the place but when he did, the ruins and the obvious signs of attempts to rebuild them told him where he was. One thing every angel quickly learned were the locations of places of worship. Of course, not everyone had a memory as perfect as Sherlock and Mycroft, but that hardly mattered. Sherlock knew where he was and since he knew, it would only be a matter of time until Mycroft knew as well. And then he would establish contact in some way or other and Sherlock would get out of here.

  
But first, he could spend a day or two, possibly more, recuperating here at the Khorzhak Monastery. It was located in a truly beautiful spot of Tibet, not far to the southeast of Burang and just northeast of the Indian border. Sherlock knew that because he had been here before, a long time ago.

  
*****

 

Khorzhak Monastery was bustling with activity as Sherlock reached it, which was good, and everyone stared at him as he stumbled into view, which was better. Then several of the monks started praying on the spot, which made initiating any kind of conversation a bit difficult. Sherlock chose to hurry things along by doing the only thing he felt capable of doing - he collapsed.

  
Ten minutes later, Sherlock had been carried into a room at the south side of the temple, someone had started a fire nearby, he was being offered blankets and dry clothes and one of the monks was reverently placing a tea tray on the floor beside him. It couldn't have gone better if he'd planned it.

  
He was left alone to change out of his cold, wet clothes and dry himself with the towel before dressing in the clothes they had given him - a monk's robes, naturally, the colour indicating they were spares of one of the highest ranking men in the order. Hardly a surprise either, considering what they thought him to be. There were no actual Angels in Buddhism, not in the way Christianity viewed them. Instead, there were Devas, godlike beings from higher dimensions said to live in a sphere of happiness.

  
Wearing a monk's ill-fitting robes in Tibet after a long discussion with God that had kept him away from Earth for an as-of-yet undetermined length of time and made him end up on the other side of the world from where he actually wanted to be, Sherlock was as far from any spheres of happiness as he could get.

  
Settling cross-legged onto a thin cushion on the floor, he poured himself a cup of tea and wrapped his hands around the hot ceramic with a sigh of satisfaction as warmth began to return to his numb fingers. It was almost painful, pins and needles and a general feeling of having stuck his hands into a bonfire, but the sensation eased quickly and the resulting warmth was well worth the momentary unpleasantness. He took a sip of his tea, blissful warmth sliding down his throat and pooling in his stomach before spreading throughout his body. A moment later, that bliss turned to something else and he felt a distinct stab in his chest as he realised that the tea was not nearly as good as anything John had ever prepared for him.

  
John.

  
John, who was quite literally at the other end of the world, possibly an old man by now, having lived his entire life without ever knowing that Sherlock was still alive, looking for a way back to him. He had to find out what had happened, how much time had passed.

  
Luckily, the lama did not make him wait for long and soon enough Sherlock had an opportunity to inquire about the precise date of his arrival. Translated to the European calendar, he had been gone for a year and four months.

  
His first reaction was relief - intense and lifting a weight off his shoulders he hadn't realised he was carrying. Little more than a year. He could work with that. John would not have changed much in that time, surely, and Sherlock would return to him soon enough, to set things right.

  
Then came another stab of pain. A year! An entire year had gone by. Two thirds of the time he and John had spent together from their first meeting to the day he had jumped off St. Bart's hospital. It was too much. It was far, far too long. Anything could happen in a year, after all, as history had taught him again and again. The sooner he returned home, the better.

  
He drank tea with the lama and talked with him, staying as vague as possible - on one hand because he was forbidden from disclosing any specifics about the heavenly goings-on, and on the other hand because the lama clearly expected him to be vague. Religious people often were like that, Sherlock had found. They wanted vague and unspecific instructions and explanations so they could then twist them around in a way that best suited them and their interests. To be honest, he found it a bit disgusting.

  
Religious men of the Christian or Islamic persuasion were worse than Buddhists, though, for the simple fact that if a Buddhist were to inquire after his gods, the conversation would never end. There were simply too many, so they usually didn't bother in the first place.

  
Sherlock sighed and took another sip of his tea. He really wished he could get one of those PG Tipps ones John always made. No, that wasn't entirely true. He certainly wouldn't say no to a cup of tea made by John, but he didn't really care. What he wanted was John, simple as that. He found he rather missed him. A lot.

  
In some way, he had not expected to miss John, hadn't thought he would feel his absence so keenly after only a couple of weeks. As far as he was concerned, no more time than that had passed, yet he missed his best friend as if he had trudged through each and every day of the almost seventeen months that had actually passed since he had jumped off St. Bart's hospital. Wasn't missing someone supposed to get easier the more time passed, the more distractions you found to focus on? It certainly didn't feel that way.

  
*****

  
Over the following days, Sherlock discovered that he had been right in his assessment. The sense of missing John did not ease one bit. Instead, it got continually worse with each day he spent away. Instead of finding distractions, his mind came up with new details about John that he missed, things he had picked up subconsciously and never actually paid much attention to.

  
Worst of all, he missed John constantly. There seemed no reprieve, no moment of peace and quiet where he could pretend he was just another celestial being that had happened to end up in a monastery in Tibet. The harder he fought not to think of John, the more he actually thought of him. It was an impossible cycle to break out of and finally Sherlock simply gave up and accepted the missing for what it was - a constant companion. It felt as if he had a small, John-shaped black hole right next to him, sucking up air and space and noise where John should be, taking up all of that.

  
Sherlock soldiered on.

  
He got up in the mornings, joined the monks in their usual prayer, walked the grounds of the monastery and waited for Mycroft to contact him. At one point, he noticed a new, suspiciously shy addition to the usual group of monks, and uncovered the young woman in their midst during the evening prayers. How a blonde European woman had thought she wouldn't stand out among bald Asian monks, was beyond him, but it did not take long to figure out the actual reason for her appearance.

  
"You are expected back home," she told him in private after he had used his authority to shoo the monks away for a bit. "Your brother says the threat has been dealt with in your unexpected absence."

  
For the second time since his arrival in Tibet, relief flooded his body.

  
He could finally return home to John.


	27. Part 6 - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys! Time for Sherlock to go back where he belongs...

**Chapter 3**

 

He arrived in New Dheli two days after his departure from the monastery, disappearing as suddenly as he had shown up, no doubt much to the amazement of the monks.

  
After having spent almost two weeks far away from civilisation (and even longer away from Earth, even though he had not noticed the time passing), New Dheli was almost overwhelming to his senses. Too many people, colours, voices, noises and scents colouring the air. There were carts and animals and fabrics and fruit and far too much henna, all of it covered in the exhaust of thousands of scooters and cars that looked old enough to belong in a landfill rather than onto streets.

  
Sherlock navigated the crush of people easily, his height giving him every advantage to see above the crowd and spot hindrances in time to avoid them entirely. He didn't mean to linger for longer than he had to, but his flight would not be leaving for another two days and he had missed the noise and the constant rush of life you only found in big, densely populated cities. The massive influx of data also served to distract him from the one other thing he constantly missed - John.

  
He barely slept and when he did, he dreamed of John and the life he had left behind in London. Most of the time, he woke up shaking and miserable, choosing to prowl the city at all times just for something to do, no matter the dangers of walking around New Dheli in the middle of the night.

  
On what was to be his last walk around the city, mere hours before his flight was set to leave from a small, private airfield at the edge of the city, Sherlock accidentally came across a police investigation. Distracted by his thoughts and the sheer joy that came with the knowledge that his return to Europe was imminent, he would have walked right past the commotion if it had not been for the policeman stopping him with a firm grip on his arm.

  
For one short moment, Sherlock feared he had been recognised, but then the man demanded his name and the reason he was here in broken English. Sherlock replied in perfect Hindi, taking a closer look at the house they were standing in front of. There were not many people around, a handful of stragglers just turning around the far corner of the street, clearly unwilling to be dragged into the investigation. The police were not known for being very thorough in these parts. If a suspicious person was found lurking around the scene of a crime, chances were they would be arrested and convicted regardless of their lack of involvement in whatever had transpired.

  
Sherlock, with his pale skin and European looks, immediately stuck out wherever he went in these parts. It was hardly a surprise he had been stopped, really.

  
Fortunately, a few wisely-chosen words to the police officer and longer, equally sensible conversation with his superior soon cleared the matter up and within minutes Sherlock found himself standing at the scene of a murder for the first time in far too long. Fighting to keep the satisfied smile off his face, he bent over the dead body slumped across the table, and spent quite some time examining the dishes laid out before him.

  
It was simple, really. The man could not have been killed by the servant who had brought him the ice cream, the flakes had sunken too far into the ice already for that to be the case, and the circle of suspects was quickly narrowed down to two, only one of whom had a motive. Simple.

  
Sherlock pointed out the chocolate flakes and some other details, refused to take any of the credit and left the grateful investigators to talk to the horde of journalists.

  
He had a flight to catch.

  
*****

 

For all his previous determination to never again set foot on this nightmare of a plane, Sherlock all but ran up the steps. The "Welcome to you on board today, sir," was called after him as he sank into a seat by the window, not bothering to suppress a sigh of relief. The seat groaned a complaint at having to do its job and one glance at the folding table attached to the back of the seat in front of him told him it was best not entrusted with anything above the weight of a hydrogen atom.

  
He had purchased a handful of essentials along with a new messenger bag to put them in, which he now deposited on the seat beside him. His right leg was jiggling, betraying his impatience for the plane to get into the air. He wasn't quite so impatient for it to start its descent, though, knowing full well that this particular machine was mostly held in the air by wishful thinking and the crew's stubbornness.

  
He briefly considered stopping his leg's movement but couldn't quite make himself do it. Letting go of some of his excess energy felt too good to stop for the sake of yet another mask. He was quite sick of deception and hiding by now. It was unlikely anyone would even recognise him. As far as they were concerned, more than a year had passed since they had met, so he should be as safe as-

  
"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Sigerson?"

  
Sherlock froze, even his bouncing leg abandoning all motion. "Excuse me?"

  
"Tea," the steward repeated. "Would you like a cup of tea? I don't know if I can make it nice and warm, but I can try if you want me to."

  
Slowly, Sherlock turned his head and looked up into the eager face of Arthur Shappey. He was beaming from ear to ear as if meeting Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Then again, judging by the memory of their last encounter and the steward's general life, that may actually be the case.

  
"You remember my name?" People never did that. Not for so long, certainly. And not with people like him.

  
"Oh yes, Mr Sigerson!" Impossibly, Arthur's grin widened. "I like your hair much better this way but the ginger was nice, too. Made you look a lot like Skip and he has very nice hair. Not as curly as yours. Or as long. Or as brown. Would you like a cup of tea?"

  
The random repetition of his question at the end was almost expected. "I'd like that," Sherlock said, casting his mind back to the last time they had met. "Perhaps I could trouble you for your Special-Tea once more?"

  
"Really?," Arthur breathed.

  
"It was a very ... memorable beverage," Sherlock assured him. "Actually, I wonder if you have branched out and discovered some new ingredients?"

  
As it turned out, Arthur had. After he had taken several sips, Sherlock was forced to admit that the addition of gummi bears lent a surprising element to the overall density of the drink and that no, he didn't think that dipping a carrot into it diminished the taste at all.

  
He was left alone for a while after that, much to his relief. Talking to Arthur was strangely exhausting - he wasn't used to taking other people's feelings into consideration before speaking but was resolved to make an effort for the childlike steward. John would like that, if he were here.

  
The very thought of John made his lips curve into a smile and his leg start bouncing again. Only a few hours separated him from Europe. The plane was going to stop in Hamburg, Germany, and Sherlock would continue on his way back home from there. He had been hoping to return to London straight away but this was as far as MJN Air could take him, so he had to find alternative transportation in Germany. Not that it would pose much of a problem, of course.

  
It was a bit annoying to have to postpone his return for another couple of hours, but he had already been gone for almost a year and a half, so another handful of hours was not going to make any difference in the big picture.

  
He felt far too impatient about seeing John again, though. Could John tell he was coming back? Did John somehow sense his approach, the way Sherlock felt himself getting closer and closer to him with each mile the plane carried him?

  
No, that would be stupid. Of course John didn't know he was coming back. But he would find out soon enough. The moment he returned to London, he would seek out John. He felt almost feverish just thinking about it. Getting out of a cab or one of Mycroft's cars outside Baker Street, opening the door and ascending the stairs two at a time, pushing open the door and finally, finally, seeing John again.

  
Sherlock closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath.

  
He had been gone for too long. The separation felt terrible, like a viral disease attacking him from the inside with no obvious symptoms to fight and no medication to help him along. There was nothing to do but ride it out and return to John. Now, as the plane ate the miles separating him from his home and the only person he longed to see, Sherlock felt both better and worse than he had since he had jumped off of St. Bart's rooftop.

  
Anticipation and longing twisted in his gut and for one elated moment, he dared to imagine what seeing John again would be like. What would he do? How would he react? Surely John would be disbelieving, perhaps even shocked. But then ... Sherlock imagined his delight, his breathless laughter and the affectionate "you mad wanker" that were sure to follow. He wondered if John might hug him. He wondered what he would do if John hugged him. Return the gesture?

  
His arms ached with the wish to wrap around that solid, compact body. He remembered the moment of breathless tension in the alley as they had run from the police on their last night together and found himself wishing he had taken that final step to close the distance between them. If he had, at least he would have a point of reference for his imagination to wrap around. As it was, he had nothing but a thousand hopes and questions and assumptions.

  
Perhaps he should rectify his mistake from that night and push John back against the sitting room wall right next to the door.

  
He sucked in a sharp breath at the mere idea.

  
All his life he had avoided this exact situation, had fought to remain aloof and distant and avoid physical contact with others as much as possible. There had been moments of temptation, certainly - Victor sprang to mind immediately, having been the most recent one before John - but he had never given in to the feeling before. Not once had he closed the distance or allowed anyone else to do so for him. And not once had he regretted his inaction - until John.

  
Now, getting closer was all he could think about.

  
In fact, Sherlock strongly suspected there might not be such a thing as "close enough" when it came to John. He wanted John everywhere. He wanted to be touching him from head to toe, he wanted John around him, in him, above and beneath and beside him. All the time. He wanted ...

  
He _wanted._

  
He wanted John.

  
Never before had he wanted anyone to the exclusion of anything else. All these years - decades, centuries, _millennia_ \- of wanting someone who didn't even exist yet had piled up behind a dam in his head and he could feel the first hairline fracture cracks in its foundations.

  
And now it was almost over. Just a day or two was all that separated him from the final, permanent end to his loneliness. It was almost too much to handle.

  
"Pecan pie or strudel?," a cheerful voice asked, startling him from his thoughts. It said a lot about his preoccupation that he had not heard Arthur approach.

  
"Pardon?"

  
"Would you rather have pecan pie or strudel?," the steward asked happily. "They're both really good and you should absolutely take the pie. Or the strudel. It's really up to you, obviously, but you should definitely decide on one."

  
Something about the way Arthur spoke and the way he was bouncing on his feet made Sherlock suspicious.

  
"Is there something special about either of them?"

  
"Noooooo, no no no, not at all, of course not." As far as reassurances went, this one didn't do a very good job. "It's just ... it's time for lunch and these are the only two options so you'll have to take either one. Or both, I suppose, but Mum might make you pay extra."

  
Sherlock didn't even try to hide his smirk. "I have no doubt."

  
Still, Arthur appeared rather eager for him to decide on one of the two and he kept glancing towards the galley... ah, of course.

  
"So, which one of those did Mr Richardson bet on?"

  
Amidst his stuttering of feeble defenses, Arthur had the good grace to blush.

  
_'Like a maiden'_ Sherlock thought, then wondered if he himself would-

  
He shook his head to dispel the thought. "Nothing for me," he managed. "I'm not really hungry."

  
"But it's a very long flight."

  
Sherlock granted him with a crooked smile. "You have no idea."

  
"I could ask Skip," Arthur ventured. "I'm sure he knows. He knows everything about flying."

  
"That's not quite how I meant it," Sherlock informed him, surprised by his own willingness to make conversation. Somehow, talking to Arthur was easy. At least he didn't think Sherlock was a freak. Then again, he also didn't think Sherlock was human, and rightly so. "It just feels longer than it actually is."

  
"Ohhhh! Oh yeah. That happens sometimes. People get scared on GERTI because she's so old. And sometimes we get lost and have to turn around and-"

  
Sherlock decided that Arthur should never be asked to give motivation speeches.

  
"-that's brilliant! We always see lots of interesting new things and people and everyone's really nice. Except Mum, Mum gets angry. But it's always very funny and brilliant!"

  
Then again ...

  
Sherlock leaned back in his seat, only listening with half an ear as Arthur prattled on about all the places they had been forced to perform emergency landings in. It was indeed a very long flight.

  
*****

 

It was raining when Sherlock's flight landed in Hamburg. He got up, stretched his legs, grabbed his bag and stiffly made his way off the plane, giving curt nods to the pilots and CEO and a wave to Arthur, who waved back enthusiastically. Sherlock was already halfway to baggage claims when he remembered something. Cursing, he turned and hurried back, almost running into the people of MJN Air as he turned a corner.

  
"Mr Sigerson," Mrs Knapp-Shappey said, surprised. "Did you forget something?"

  
Judging by the look on her face as she spoke, she clearly expected the "something" to be a filed complaint against her company.

  
"I did, in fact," he said, then promptly turned his back on her and focused on Arthur, who was looking at him with big eyes. "I remembered your question from last time we met and I can confirm that your ... uh... little friend is very happy indeed and not holding a grudge at all."

  
Arthur beamed and started to say something but Sherlock had already turned around and walked away, knowing with absolute certainty that whatever the steward could possibly say would end up revealing too much to the others.

  
He hurried past baggage claims without even slowing down; all his luggage - if a change of clothes could be called that - was in his messenger bag. He followed the signs leading towards the exit, stubbornly ignoring the people around him, and heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped outside and the warm summer air hit his face.

  
In the time it had taken him to get through customs and leave the airport, the rain had turned into a fine drizzle, not unlike those he was used to walking around in back home in London. He had lost count of the number of crime scenes he had examined in this weather.

  
A sleek, black car pulled up right in front of him, the driver blatantly ignorant of all the signs informing him that parking or even stopping here was not permitted. Sherlock opened the door and got in. He was expecting one of Mycroft's many underlings and was therefore quite surprised to find his brother himself sitting in the back seat.

  
"Did you actually leave the country to welcome me or was picking me up a convenient stop between your hotel and whatever conference you are required to attend?," he asked, not bothering to say Hello. He and Mycroft rarely wasted time with such mundane things when there was important information to be shared.

  
"It is so very good to see you, too, Sherlock," his brother replied calmly, cool eyes taking him in from head to toe and deducing everything he had done since they had last met. "Your sudden disappearance in Rome caused some small upheaval. I do wish you would have informed me about this."

  
"I didn't expect it either," Sherlock snapped. "I was in the middle of an interrogation when I got called back. Be glad I managed to eliminate all of the witnesses in the area before it happened. No one will have any idea what transpired."

  
"One of them does," Mycroft said calmly. "He has since taken orders and joined a convent."

  
Sherlock snorted. "His mother must be pleased."

  
"Exceedingly so. You left us with quite a mess to clean up, brother mine," Mycroft stated, swiftly returning to the topic at hand. For a fraction of a second, Sherlock saw something flicker across his brother's face and realised that Mycroft had been worried by his sudden disappearance.

  
"Yes, well, I didn't intend to," he pointed out. "And I am sure your minions are more than capable of cleaning up messes. It's what you pay them for."

  
Mycroft inclined his head by the tiniest fraction he could get away with, as much a concession as Sherlock was going to get from him on this particular topic. "Nevertheless, you caused quite the upheaval. Either way, my people have cleaned up most of the mess you left behind."

  
Sherlock frowned, immediately suspicious. "Most of it?"

  
His brother grimaced. "There are some small issues left that I thought you might like to handle yourself."

  
"I want to go home," Sherlock hissed at him. "It's been one and a half years, Mycroft. It was never supposed to take that long." He took a breath. "I ... I need to go home."

  
Something in his tone made Mycroft turn his head and examine him all over again. "You're not well."

  
"Of course I'm not," he snapped. "I just told you, I've been gone for one and a half years."

  
"What does it feel like? A couple of weeks?"

  
"On a rational level, yes. But it feels longer already. There is a ... backlog of time away that requires experiencing." He grit his teeth, unhappy about the inaccurate description. There were no words to properly explain this.

  
Mycroft seemed to understand him regardless. "How unexpected," he mused. "Either way, while I am sorry to hear this, I'm afraid I must insist that you handle this yourself."  
He pushed a file across the smooth leather seat. "Take a look, tell me what you think."

  
Knowing there was nothing else he could possibly do, Sherlock did as he was told. One glance at the file told him it would take at least another month to sort out Mycroft's latest problem. Unfortunately, he kind of owed his brother some assistance after Mycroft had taken care of Moriarty's network for him. Another month until he'd get to return home.

  
Somewhere deep inside, he was howling with frustrated longing.

  
*****

  
_1 month later_

  
The cab seemed to take forever to cross the city, crawling through traffic at the speed of a legless turtle. Sherlock sighed in frustration and drummed his fingers on his right knee, an impatient habit he had never quite managed to suppress in private moments. Every now and then, he stopped drumming to wipe his hands on his thighs. They felt uncomfortably clammy. In fact, so did most of his body. He wondered at his transport's odd reaction. After so long a time of wanting nothing more than to go home, he now experienced a rush of anxiety and nerves, as if his transport had decided he was entering a highly dangerous situation and was therefore conducting a system-check to see if his adrenaline-production was still functional. It was.

  
_'Foolish,'_ he thought. _'There's nothing to be afraid of.'_

  
And yet here he was, his heart thumping too rapidly in his chest, his mouth dry, hands sweaty. His entire body was trembling ever so slightly, every muscle tense. It would be fine, he knew. All he had to do was open the door, walk up the stairs and look at John and he would be fine.

  
His stomach twisted with nerves. _'What then?,'_ a small part of his mind asked, the one that never gave him a break. _'What will happen then?'_

  
He didn't know. It was likely that John would be shocked at first, perhaps slightly angry at having been left in the dark. But in the end, he'd be glad to see him. The idea that he wouldn't be was laughable. A couple of minutes, maybe half an hour, of awkward questions and tense explanations and everything would be all right.

  
Sherlock swallowed and tried to focus on the city slipping past outside the window. They were getting closer to Baker Street already and he felt his heart rate picking up again. Pointless.

  
The cab got stuck in another traffic jam and he wanted to shout in frustration, wanted to jump out and run the rest of the way, but every calculation told him that the cab would still be the fastest option, so he stayed put. Mycroft had offered one of his cars, of course, but Sherlock had wanted to arrive at Baker Street in a way that felt right and Mycroft's cars never did.

  
Distantly, he remembered his brother talking to him as he picked him up from the airport. There had been something in his voice, a kind of tension Sherlock didn't quite like to recall now, but he hadn't been listening to a word Mycroft said. He had been too occupied staring at London, feeling the relief of being back in the city he belonged, closer to John than he had been in far too long, his mind distracted by every place he and John had ever been together, everything they had said and done and all the things he planned to say and do.

  
Whatever Mycroft had been talking about wasn't important enough to pay attention to. About halfway to his office, Mycroft must have realised that and had fallen silent. He had sounded resigned when he had wished him "Good luck" as Sherlock hopped out of the car. He expected a phone call sometime in the next day or two.

  
Finally, traffic eased and the cab turned into Marylebone Road, carrying him past pedestrians and shops and houses and buses before finally turning into Baker Street. His heard leapt in his chest and he took a deep breath to try and steady himself. He was finally home.

  
"Oi, you getting out or what?," the cabbie demanded, startling him out of his immobility.

  
Rolling his eyes at the man, Sherlock handed him a bunch of notes, not bothering that it was about twice the actual fare. "No change," he said distractedly and got out, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

  
He crossed the pavement and walked up the two steps to the door in a trance, unable to quite believe he was there. Just to make sure he wasn't dreaming, he pressed his hand against the familiar wooden surface. It was solid, slightly rough in places where a new coat of paint was needed. His fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the knocker, brushed along the numbers and letter nailed to the door. 221b.

  
He was home.

  
Taking another breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key Mycroft had handed back to him in the car. He had left it with him for safekeeping and the metal had felt as if it was burning a hole into his pocket during the entire drive here.

  
Slowly, he unlocked the door, memorizing every tiny detail as it finally swung open beneath the pressure of his hand, revealing the familiar hallway and the stairs leading up to the flat. His flat. His and John's flat. Their flat. He was really home.

  
One glance at Mrs Hudson's door told him the landlady was out, which was probably for the best - he didn't want her to scream and spoil the surprise for John. His phone beeped with a message and he glanced at the screen just long enough to read the text Mycroft had sent him, confirming that Mrs Hudson was visting her sister and wasn't expected back until the next day.

  
He pocketed the device, adjusted the strap of his bag and walked along the hall, finally setting a foot onto the lowest stair. His right hand curled around the railing, wood cool and smooth to the touch after so many hands had trailed along its surface.

  
Sherlock smiled and slowly walked up the stairs, savouring each groan and creak of the wood until he came to a halt in front of the closed door to the flat.  
Finally, finally, he was here. His hand shook as he reached for the handle.

  
He held his breath as he pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.


	28. Part 7 - Chapter 1

**Part VII**

 

 

  
_"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."_  
_― F. Scott Fitzgerald_

 

  
**Chapter 1**

 

It was as if he had never left. As if one and a half years hadn't passed since he had last set foot into 221b Baker Street.

  
The skull was still in its place on the mantle, his bat collection propped up right next to it. The desks were littered with magazines and papers, though they did look marginally more organised than they used to. Stacks of magazines and newspapers were also piled next to shelves and in the corners. There was no more dust than there always had been, so the flat was definitely occupied.

  
John wasn't there.

  
If anyone else were living here, they would have removed all his stuff and of course Mycroft would have told him if John didn't live here anymore. He was probably working at the clinic - it was barely noon and without Sherlock he hadn't had any cases to distract him from pulling full shifts and earning a steady income to pay the bills and put food in the fridge. All the dull, boring stuff Sherlock had never bothered with. And why should he, when John was right there to do it for him?

  
He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, some of the muscles in his back and shoulders relaxing a little as he detected the familiar tendrils of John's aftershave and the flowery notes of Mrs Hudson's perfume. The flat was lacking its usual overlaying scent of chemicals, both from Sherlock's experiments and John's attempts at cleaning up after them. Of course, without him around to perform any experiments, the smell of formaldehyde and bleach would be long gone now.

  
Opening his eyes again, he turned around and glanced at the kitchen table. His lab equipment was missing - the microscope, the Erlenmeyer flask and Bunsen burner, everything. He wasn't very surprised by that; John had constantly complained about him cluttering up the kitchen table where people were supposed to eat. They rarely had, preferring instead to use their desks in the sitting room or eat while seated in their respective chairs or on the couch. And mostly it had been John doing the eating and Sherlock stating time and again that he wasn't hungry because the alternative was confessing that being dead made things like digestion rather superfluous and he only put up with it for appearance's sake and the occasional boost of energy.

  
He allowed his gaze to wander, examining the main part of the flat and soaking up the details. He didn't even bother with the deductions - deducing his own home made about as much sense as deducing himself - he already knew all the answers before he even started.

  
There were some cardboard boxes with stuff piled by the door and one glance told him it was mostly John's, old textbooks and clothes. Was he cleaning out old stuff, making room for new things? No, that didn't seem right.

  
He looked around the room, trying to determine what was different. It took a while but finally he realised that it barely looked lived in. In fact, after one and a half years, much more of his things should have been moved. Surely John would have taken the opportunity to throw out one or two of the printers and at least organise the desks?

  
Sherlock shivered, belatedly realising that the heating wasn't on despite the chilly late autumn temperatures.

  
Conclusion: John hadn't lived in the flat for quite some time, not properly. Judging by the stuff in the boxes, he was just moving back in then.

  
Conclusion: John hadn't been able to stand being in the flat without Sherlock being there as well.

  
The thought warmed something in his chest, a glowing ember easing some of his nerves. He recalled that day on the roof and the thought of John dying. Of losing John. He tried to imagine returning to this flat, knowing that John was gone, lost forever (by a human standard). He shuddered. No, he wouldn't have been able to bear it.

  
The flat wasn't meant for just Sherlock Holmes or just John Watson. On some fundamental level, it belonged to the two of them, and the idea of upsetting that equilibrium made him almost physically sick. If he had been in John's shoes, he would have left, too. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time he had run from sentiment. He had left the University of Cambridge with barely a goodbye, unable to stand the thought of seeing Victor and knowing that he just wasn't _right_. And before that, he had run from Paris for much the same reason, and from Constantinople before _that_.

  
He was done running now.

  
Suddenly unsure of what to do now that he was here and John wasn't, Sherlock glanced towards his bedroom. He could go in there, lie down in his own bed for a while, pass the time dozing until John came back. But he didn't know how often John entered his bedroom and he had a distinct suspicion that his transport might betray him and he would fall asleep and not hear John coming home and that would be bad.

  
John might go to bed without knowing Sherlock was here and he knew he couldn't wait another day before he finally saw John again. Or, worse, John might come in here and find Sherlock asleep and do who-knew-what in his shock. He might think he was having a psychotic breakdown or something. And also, Sherlock really wanted to be wide awake, watch and record every emotion on John's face and every tiny motion of his body. He didn't want to miss anything because his mind was muddled by sleep.

  
The bed was not an option, then.

  
He decided to stay here, just to make completely certain he didn't miss John, and moved to sit in his armchair. It hadn't been moved from its usual spot, but someone - Mrs Hudson probably - had regularly dusted it, keeping it clean. One glance at the leather seat told him that no one had sat in it for a very long time, probably since he himself had done so. It creaked and sighed in all the right ways as it accepted his weight, his body easily slotting into the cushions where he had already worn dents into them over the years.

  
Sighing in relief as the sense of being home washed over him, Sherlock fixed his eyes on the door and settled in to wait for John.

  
*****

 

As a scientist, Sherlock was no stranger to Albert Einstein's theory of relativity, but he had never felt its application quite as keenly as he did in the two hours he sat waiting for John to come home. Time seemed to move in weird, erratic ways. At first every minute dragged on with all the viscosity of treacle. His muscles refused to relax, the tension in his body increasing with the noise of every car he heard approaching out on the street and with every sound suggesting a human in the vicinity.

  
After a while, Sherlock decided that John was not likely to return in a matter of minutes, so he forced his body to relax a little, slumping in his seat and tilting his head back to rest on the back of his chair and stare at the ceiling. Then, for no apparent reason at all, about three quarters of an hour passed without him noticing. It was treacle again after that, and then another half an hour seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

  
Suddenly, there was the sound of the front door being thrown open and familiar steps on the stairs.

  
Sherlock's heart, which had been often ignored up to now, decided to demand his attention by suddenly tripling its efficiency and also by apparently relocating somewhere into the vicinity of his throat. He knew of course that such a thing was a scientific impossibility, but apparently no one had informed his internal organs and really why was he even thinking about this at all when he was mere seconds away from seeing John again?

  
Belatedly, Sherlock realised that he had neglected to close the door after entering the flat.

  
John's steps paused about halfway up the second flight of stairs, on the one step that always creaked the loudest. "Huh," he said, apparently to himself. "I thought for sure I closed the door when I left. MRS HUDSON! ... Oh, right, she's out."

  
Hearing John's voice did some very weird things to Sherlock's insides. He wished he had an MRI machine or maybe an ultrasound so he could watch his digestive tract and stomach completely rearrange themselves inside his abdomen. He sucked in a breath, just to see if he was able to, and maybe also to check if he could smell John in the air. He couldn't.

  
And then John resumed ascending the stairs and walked through the door and Sherlock forgot all about MRIs and internal organs and breathing.

  
John froze two steps into the sitting room, which was how long it took his brain to interpret and react to Sherlock's unexpected presence.

  
John stood and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock sat and stared at John.

  
He had no idea how much time passed as they remained where they were, unable to tear their eyes off each other. Sherlock soaked up John's appearance like a sponge taking in water, feeling his chest expand in one quick rush as information assaulted him, automatic deductions that blew straight through his mind and went utterly ignored as his brain got overwhelmed by a constant mental chatter of _'John John John John John John John John John John John'_. He was unable to compute anything else, the full capacity of his mind struggling with the concept of him and John in the same room at the same time after so long.

  
And then, after several millennia or maybe six seconds had passed, John opened his mouth.

  
"Oh," he said. "Oh god."

  
_'Not quite'_ Sherlock thought dazedly, trying to summon enough energy to ... do something.

  
"Not today," John continued, which was enough to shake Sherlock from his daze.

  
"Excuse me?"

  
"Please, can we not do this today?," John asked. "I've been doing so well, I thought I was finally done with this. I haven't seen you in months, why did you have to show up today?"

  
_Months?!_ Sherlock blinked in confusion. This was not how he had expected this conversation to go. John was far too accepting of his being here. In fact, he didn't seem surprised at all. Surely that couldn't be right. Something needed to be done, and fast, before this situation got even more out of hand.

  
Sherlock stood, surprised that his legs were working at all, and took two steps towards John. It took every last scrap of willpower not to lunge at him and wrap his arms around him and bury his nose in the crook of his neck, which was everything he had been yearning to do for ages.

  
"John," he said, his lids fluttering closed with the sheer bliss of finally saying his name to his face again. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

  
John laughed, just one short bark. It sounded all wrong, brittle, like walking barefoot on shards of glass. "Now I know you're not real. Of course you aren't. You're dead. You fucking went and killed yourself." His voice shook. "And then you hung around for months, just showing up every time I turned around and driving me mad and I haven't seen you in months and I was doing fine. I really was." He sounded as if he needed to make himself believe it more than Sherlock. "And here you are again, today of all days, and I can't-"

  
He broke off with a choked sob and Sherlock wanted so desperately to comfort him, to reach out and tell him it was all fine, because clearly John thought he was hallucinating. Admittedly, that was what Sherlock himself would have thought as well, had their roles been reversed.

  
His hand moved quite out of its own volition and he found his fingers hovering less than an inch from John's face, his fingers trembling with the need to touch.

  
"Please don't," John whispered, sounding far too broken to be standing upright. "You always disappear when I try to touch you."

  
Sherlock had a sudden, vivid vision of John standing in this very room, talking to an imaginary version of him and reaching out to touch him, only to have him disintegrate into nothingness. Much the same thing he had been doing in his own mind, then. Something inside him cracked, like a frozen lake with too much weight on it. It was only a matter of time until the ice broke and he would drown.

  
Two things happened then, almost at the same moment:

  
The very tip of Sherlock's right index finger made contact with John's left cheek, and a female voice shattered the moment.

  
"John? Are you having trouble with the boxes, love?"

  
*****

 

The silence descending on the room was all-encompassing.

  
Sherlock, having snatched his hand away, was too busy staring at the woman to say anything, trying to somehow fit her into the very straightforward concept of _Him And John_ and finding there was nothing straightforward left.

  
John, for his part, was struggling to remember that Sherlock was dead and therefore couldn't possibly be standing in front of him.

  
And the woman stared at both of them and then was the first to gather her wits.

  
"Uh, hello," she said. "I didn't know John had friends coming over to help him with the move. We haven't met yet, have we?"

  
Sherlock stared at her, waiting for his brain to catch up with recent events and somehow come up with a brilliant response that would send her screaming from the room.

  
"Certainly not," was all that came out of his mouth. He immediately lost interest in her again. The novelty had already worn off and really, how could he be wasting a single second that would be so much better spent staring at John?

  
John, who was now looking at the woman with wide eyes and apparently trying to form words. "Y-you... you can see him?"

  
It was the woman's turn to look confused now. "Yes, of course," she said. "Why?"

  
Sherlock decided that perhaps it was time to explain the situation so they could move on to the part where she left and he was finally alone with John. He strode forward, taking only two steps to reach her, and grasped her hand, which she allowed him to do automatically.

  
"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself. "I'm afraid I haven't been around for a while, I'm sure you've heard. But you know how it is, rumours of my death et cetera."

  
"Mary Morstan," she said, apparently still acting on autopilot. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

  
Of course she didn't. She was an idiot. She had to be. Why else would she believe John was going to go anywhere with her now that Sherlock was here to keep him company?

  
"Well, I don't have time for explanations now," he told her impatiently. "Come along, John, we can drop by the Yard and surprise Lestrade and his merry band of imbeciles. Maybe he'll have a nice murder for us."

  
Clearly if John thought he was hallucinating, what he needed was a healthy dose of normality and there was nothing better suited than jumping right back into the thick of things. A nice, bloody murder and some insults directed at Anderson would be just the thing to shake him out of his confusion, Sherlock was certain. He brushed past Mary towards the door, then paused when he realised that John had not moved a muscle.

  
He turned back to him, taking in the look on John's face. He looked rather pained, his face twisted up and his breathing coming in strange gasps. Perhaps he had eaten something wrong? Sherlock had seen people suffering from indigestion before and the expression on their faces had been rather similar.

  
"Or perhaps we could stay in today and visit the Yard tomorrow," he suggested, suddenly worried. What if it was a virus? Maybe John had the flu. Sherlock didn't remember the last time he had been sick but he was reasonably sure that people wanted to stay home and have tea or something when they didn't feel well. "If you're feeling up to it," he added as an afterthought.

  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed that Mary was looking at him with a kind of horrified fascination before she glanced at John, her expression rapidly changing to one of worry.

  
"Mary," John said, sounding very calm and not at all like someone suffering from flu. Sherlock relaxed a bit. "Why don't you take this box here downstairs and I'll meet you at the car once I've talked to-" He broke off, gesturing at Sherlock.

  
He felt a stab of disappointment - it had been so long since he had heard his name from John's lips, he was almost itching for it. It was immediately appeased by the realisation that John apparently wanted to be alone with him, which was precisely what he had been hoping for. He felt rather than heard Mary pick up the cardboard box and walk down the stairs. John reached past him - _so close_ \- and closed the door with a resolute click.

  
Sherlock stared at him, feeling much better now that the strange woman was gone and the flat was their own again.

  
John turned and moved to stand two paces away from him, his face thunderous.

  
Sherlock swallowed. Maybe his expectation of joy had been a bit premature. Perhaps it was time to explain properly. Not the truth, of course, he would never believe any of that, but rather the suitable-for-humans version he and Mycroft had worked out. "John..."

  
A moment later, his back hit the wall next to the door with rather too much force for comfort, and John's right forearm was pressed against his throat, holding him there.

  
Sherlock stared at him in shock, trying to figure out how _that_ fit into this situation. Admittedly, he had hoped they would end up in this position sooner or later, but he hadn't expected it _quite_ so soon. And John's expression was all wrong, wild and forceful. It sent a thrill down Sherlock's spine and he didn't even consider trying to break free.

  
"You've got some nerve," John growled, the pressure of his arm increasing slightly as he moved closer, leaving less than two inches between their bodies. "Eighteen months! You were _dead_! You've been gone for _eighteen fucking months_ and now you just walk back in here like nothing's happened?!"

  
Sherlock licked his lips, which probably wasn't the right thing to do, but they just felt so dry and he was suddenly assaulted by all kinds of thoughts on how they might feel slanted across John's. He realised he was barely paying attention to John's actual words and tried to marshal his brain to listen.

  
"I... John ..."

  
" _No_ ," John snapped. "You don't get to talk. I can't believe you! I was fine with the occasional head in the fridge, I didn't mind being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to stand over some poor dead bugger. I forgave you for trying to drug me. I fucking _killed_ for you. And you walked away! You couldn't even be bothered to tell me you were _alive_ , for god's sake! And-"

  
"John-"

  
" _Shut up!_ -and now I can't be bothered to care." John was almost panting by now.

  
He bent, picked up the remaining cardboard box, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos. *runs and hides*


	29. Part 7 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

"So. Holmes is back then."

  
"It appears that way."

  
"Do we know how he did it?"

  
"I have no idea. He looks as he did when he left. His status seems unchanged."

  
"No Fallen could have survived jumping from a rooftop."

  
"And yet he has."

  
"We can discuss this later. He has already tried to reach out to Watson again. We cannot permit them to reconnect."

  
"Then we must preven them from doing so. Perhaps it is time to pay the good doctor a visit while he sleeps and plant a suggestion."

  
"I shall take care of it tonight."

  
*****

  
Sherlock found himself lying on the sofa with absolutely no recollection of having crossed the room or of having lain down on the worn cushions. The angle of the sun told him hours had passed, but he could not remember anything that had happened in between John leaving and the moment he opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling above the sofa.

  
He must have moved at some point, but there was nothing to tell him when he had done so or what had happened in the interim.

  
Not that he cared, mind.

  
There was only one detail of importance here and that was not a detail at all. John had left.

  
It didn't make sense.

  
He had been there at the cemetery, he had heard John pleading with him to come back - he had almost jumped out from behind his tree right then and there, in fact! And now that Sherlock had fulfilled John's wish, had returned and asked him to pick up where they had left off, John had left.

  
Worse, John was angry with him.

  
Worse than _that_ , John didn't even care that he was back. John had looked at him and told him _he didn't care._ And John _had left_.

  
Sherlock realised he wasn't breathing quite right and made a concentrated effort to focus on forcing air in and out of his lungs in a regular pattern. His hands shook. His skin felt two sizes too small, stretched uncomfortably over muscle and bone, confining him.

  
He shuddered and closed his eyes. If he didn't see the room, then maybe he could pretend John was there with him, staring at him with all the amazement Sherlock had expected to see directed at him in this moment.

  
How could everything have gone so wrong? He had returned, he had waited, he had managed not to kiss John the moment he walked through the door, which might have been a bit too overwhelming for everyone involved. He had been determined to work his way up to that over the course of the evening. And when John had accidentally revealed that he had been hallucinating Sherlock - missing him so badly his mind projected a remembered version of him into the flat - he had immediately decided to prove he was real and solid by touching him.

  
Perhaps it would have worked, if only the woman - Mary, boring, ordinary, human - hadn't walked in and torn everything apart with her presence and her voice and her inane questions. And suddenly, John had been angry. So very angry, as if Mary's confusion was all Sherlock's fault and not her own for being an idiot.

  
He remembered the strong arm pressed to his throat, the hard wall at his back and hot skin and muscles holding him in place. John had touched him. He only wished John hadn't been wearing one of his usual gruesome jumpers. He would have given anything for skin-on-skin contact, would have willingly jumped off of St. Bart's all over again if only to finally have a new memory to think of when recalling the last time John's skin had touched his.

  
_Warm fingers on his wrist, trembling, searching for a pulse that wasn't there, and John's voice, so close. "Oh god, no."_

  
Sherlock gasped, curling into a small ball on the sofa as something that felt very much like an iron fist grabbed hold of his insides and twisted.

  
He stayed like that for a very long time, unmoving as the shadows lengthened and the light faded and night settled.

  
When he became aware of his surroundings the next day, it was to a shrill scream.

  
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, sat up and glared at Mrs Hudson, who was standing in the middle of the sitting room, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  
"Oh, would you shut up? There can't possibly be any mice left in here so there's no reason to squeal like a pig being slaughtered."

  
It probably wasn't the kindest thing to say, but a moment later he found himself with an armful of Mrs Hudson, clinging to him and crying into his shoulder. He flailed around for a bit before allowing his hands to settle on her shoulder blades, feeling her thin body shaking. _'Fragile as a bird'_ he thought.

  
"Oh, you foolish boy," Mrs Hudson sniffed, squeezing him with surprising strength. "What were you thinking? Leaving us like that and not a word for so long..."

  
With a small hiccup, she moved back, wiping her eyes and giving him a failed attempt at a stern look. "Is it over?"

  
Sherlock stared at her. "What?"

  
"Whatever you've been doing," she said, as if that was obvious. "You must have been doing something, you'd never have left otherwise. Certainly not like that! Faking your own death, I must say!"

  
Sherlock blinked. This was ... unexpected. He had not realised Mrs Hudson would understand immediately what even John had failed to see.

  
He realised she was still looking at him expectantly. "Yes. It's over."

  
Mrs Hudson beamed and actually ruffled his hair. "I'll make you a cuppa and you can tell me all about it. Just this once, mind, I'm not your housekeeper."

  
She bustled off into the kitchen and switched on the kettle and, by some magic only known to housekeepers and grandmothers, somehow produced a plate of biscuits out of nowhere. Sherlock watched and listened to the sounds of domesticity and thought that maybe there was still something left to be salvaged from the ruins of his life.

  
*****

  
Once he had told Mrs Hudson everything that was safe to tell her (not much, admittedly, but still far more than he had ever intended to let her know), Sherlock put on his coat and scarf for the first time in far too long and hailed a cab to take him to New Scotland Yard.

  
He was itching for something to do, for things to return to normal. Maybe, if he managed to get everything else back to the way it had been, John would fall back into place as well, like the last missing piece in a 2000-pieces puzzle. Some small part of him was looking forward to seeing Lestrade again, and perhaps even Donovan and Anderson - if only for their absolutely dumbstruck reactions upon his appearance.

  
The cab crawled along familiar streets and Sherlock stayed glued to the window for the entire ride, watching his beloved London pass by outside and pretending desperately that he didn't feel John's absence like a localised black hole by his side, slowly sucking him in. Maybe, if he convinced himself he didn't miss John, he would stop feeling this way. Not that it had worked in the past weeks - no, eighteen months apparently - but practice made perfect, right?

  
Sherlock sighed, watching as his breath fogged up the window for a second or two. It was getting cold already, the days had begun to shorten noticeably, the sky turning grey and heavy as temperatures dropped and rain became a constant companion of everyday life with the possibility of frost just out of reach.

  
Finally the driver pulled up to the curb in front of the Yard and Sherlock handed him the fare, jumping out of the cab and tilting his head up to take in the glass facade of New Scotland Yard. A group of tired police officers huddled next to the entrance, sucking at their cigarettes as if they were the only things keeping them upright.

  
None of them looked familiar and they didn't give him a second glance. Of course not - after eighteen months, most would have forgotten about him and he had only worked closely with Lestrade, his team and a select few others, such as DI Dimmock. He strode past them without another look, too preoccupied with being back to bother deducing them. There would be time for that later, he was sure.

  
As he crossed the lobby he noticed the first curious stares, but no one had drawn the connection yet. People were surprisingly good at not seeing what was right in front of them if their brains told them it was impossible. Everyone knew he was dead, therefore he could not possibly be walking through the lobby right now and therefore they didn't actually see him and were confusing him with someone else. Sherlock smiled to himself as he pressed the button to call the lift.

  
No one else dared to brave the lift with him, so he rode up to Lestrade's office on the third floor on his own, contemplating his distorted reflection in the metal walls. His hair had been back to his usual dark curls when he had found himself lying on a snowy mountain top in Tibet and there was nothing about his appearance that suggested he had been gone for one and a half years. He wondered if Lestrade had changed a lot. Common sense suggested a few additional lines on his face. There was hardly any way for his hair to get any greyer than it had been.

  
When the elevator doors opened, Sherlock found himself facing the usual bustle of Sergeants and Police Constables going about their business, which usually meant tons of paperwork. His lips curled in distaste at the very thought of it. As far as Sherlock was concerned, paperwork was something that happened to other people.

  
There were no distinctly familiar faces around - of course not. Eighteen months was a long time to reshuffle personnel and he hadn't ever bothered to pay much attention to the PCs in the first place. He walked past cubicles and curious gazes until he reached Lestrade's office. Glancing through the small non-smoked parts of the glass walls he could make out the DI, standing by the pinboard on the far wall with a file in his hand. Next to him, Donovan was talking and gesturing at several colourful pins stuck to a map of Greater London. In the middle of a case, then. Sherlock grinned. This couldn't have gone better if he'd arranged it.

  
Keeping out of their line of sight, he inched towards the door and carefully pulled it open just far enough to hear what Donovan was saying.

  
"-can't possibly be the same guy, there's not enough time to get from one crime scene to the next, let alone break in and crack the safe."

  
Lestrade groaned. "But we already established that Williams doesn't have any accomplices."

  
From the way Sally tilted her head and stared at the pinboard, Sherlock was sure she was biting her lip in thought. He ran through several possible solutions in his mind.

  
"We found some of the stolen goods in his flat, though."

  
"Along with a receipt from a pawn shop," Lestrade reminded her. "Even if he did steal them, we don't have the evidence we need to convict him."

  
Sherlock decided now was as good a time as any to announce his presence. "Or you could arrest the pawn broker for breaking and entering and theft," he suggested, opening the door further and casually lounging against the frame as if he had been there for hours.

  
Both Lestrade and Donovan whirled around at the sound of his voice and never had two people looked more shocked. Donovan screamed. Lestrade dropped the case file, sending papers flying everywhere.

  
"You people," Sherlock said, feeling oddly fond at the sight of their familiar faces. "I can't leave you alone for eighteen months without you forgetting everything I ever taught you about solving crimes." He shook his head in mock sorrow and stepped further into the office, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. "I shudder to think what has become of your solving rate."

  
"You bloody bastard!," Lestrade gasped, being the first to recover from the shock. He lunged at Sherlock, wrapping him in a rib-threatening bear-hug and holding on for all he was worth. "I should sock you on the nose, I really should."

  
For lack of anything else to do, Sherlock awkwardly patted the DI's back, idly wondering when he had last been hugged by anyone he even remotely cared about. To his own surprise, he realised that Mrs Hudson had reacted similarly earlier this morning. At least Lestrade wasn't crying. Sherlock decided to consider that an improvement.

  
Glancing over the DI's shoulder, Sherlock realised that Donovan was still staring at him, her mouth hanging open. He winked at her, feeling strangely elated. She snapped her mouth shut and tried to glare at him, but he could see the corners of her mouth twitching. Her eyes were filled with relief.

  
*****

 

There were questions, of course, about where he had been and how he had managed to survive in the first place. Sherlock answered them as best as he could, which meant he lied through his teeth.

  
"Oh please. I could hardly take down Moriarty and his network from a prison cell in between fights with the other inmates, could I?"

  
Lestrade snorted. "What, you actually think you would have been convicted?"

  
"Absolutely," Sherlock confirmed. "He had planted too much evidence already, I'm sure there's lots that never saw the light of day. I could have broken out, of course, but there was no time to waste and my perceived death at the time was the only option left."

  
"Yeah, how did you do that, anyway?," Donovan demanded. "John was there, he saw you jump. Lots of people did."

  
"Indeed they did," Sherlock said, barely suppressing a flinch at the mention of John. "But how many of them saw me hit the ground?"

  
Silence was his only answer.

  
He nodded. "Precisely. They saw me fall and shortly afterwards they saw me lying on the ground. Therefore, I must have hit it. Simple."

  
"How-" Donovan started.

  
"Air cushion," Sherlock said shortly. "Everyone in that street that day was in on it. Well, almost everyone."

  
"So John really didn't know?," Lestrade asked, but then held up his hand, already shaking his head. "Don't answer that. He obviously didn't. You ... you have told him you're alive, haven't you?"

  
Sherlock tried very hard not to show any emotion. "I saw him yesterday when I returned."

  
Apparently, his attempt had not been very successful, for Lestrade and Donovan both looked at him, then at each other, and promptly dropped the topic.

  
"So, what now?," the DI wanted to know, rocking on the balls of his feet.

  
"Now," Sherlock said, gesturing at the wall, "I will solve your breaking-and-entering case and then work my way through all the unsolved cases that have piled up in my absence. Who knows, I may even finish them today. I don't have anything else to do for the time being."

  
Lestrade looked like someone who desperately wanted to say or ask something and was equally desperately struggling not to. Sherlock picked up the scattered papers the DI had dropped upon his arrival and started reading through them, settling onto the comfortable desk chair without bothering to ask for permission.

  
*****

 

Almost four hours later, Sherlock had nearly halved the pile of unsolved cases and his snide remarks about the Yard's general detecting abilities had become increasingly cutting.

  
"It didn't even occur to you to question the housekeeper's weekly appointments with a doctor who obviously wasn't her family physician? They should strip you of your badge, Lestrade."

  
"They almost did after that stunt you pulled," Lestrade snapped at him, finally losing his patience. "If your brother hadn't interfered, I'd be out on the street and there'd be no cases for you to come back to. In fact, I'm not even supposed to let you consult on cases anymore."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not sure a gravestone would've been of much help there." He glanced at the case files. "Then again..."

  
Lestrade sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Not my point, Sherlock."

  
"Well, as far as your superiors are concerned, I am dead," Sherlock pointed out. "In fact, I'm dead as far as most of the world is concerned, so I don't see how my helping you could possibly be against the rules. Unless your bosses want to accuse you of working with a corpse, of course, in which case they may as well retire immediately."

  
There was nothing the DI could say to that, so he stayed silent. Sherlock turned back to the remaining case files, swiveling around in Lestrade's chair until he sat with his back to the room and could prop his feet up on the window sill. It was rather comfortable, if possibly against regulations. Humans seemed to have regulations for everything these days. In general, Sherlock had gotten the impression that people loved making life more complicated for themselves than it already was.

  
Frowning, he turned back to the file in his lap detailing a moderately interesting case of stolen jewelry. There were some surprising aspects, such as the fact that the victims were ridiculously rich and only so little had been stolen that they had not noticed it for a while. The stolen items weren't even close to being the most valuable ones in their collection and Sherlock really wished someone had questioned the personnel's backgrounds more closely, though there was nothing suspicious about any of the people interviewed.

  
In the office behind him, he could hear Lestrade and Donovan discussing their current case and the possible solutions Sherlock had suggested in between cold case files. So far, they had not reached a decision on what to do, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. Donovan's voice had taken on that high pitch that suggested she was getting frustrated, a sound Sherlock was rather familiar with from years of having that tone directed at him while investigating bodies and crime scenes. He wondered how long it would take before she snapped, grabbed her jacket and went to interview the suspect she was most suspicious of. One day, he'd have to tell her to listen to her instincts more, because she was right more often than not. It was a miracle no one had picked up on that yet.

  
Less than two minutes later, he heard Donovan huff and knew the time for Lestrade to draw a battle plan was up. "Fine, why don't you re-read the file again while I go and-"

  
She broke off as the door was thrown open and someone strode in. "What the bloody hell are you doing up here? I'm getting swamped with requests for evidence samples from cases we closed months ago!"

  
Ah, Anderson. One of the few people Sherlock hadn't looked forward to seeing again. His general tolerance treshold for incompetence was closing in on zero these days and Anderson hadn't had a single moment of inspired competence in all the years Sherlock had known him. It was a sad statement about the state of the Yard that the likes of him were still employed.

  
"Yes, well, these cold cases need solving," Lestrade said, apparently not quite sure how to break the news to his so-called forensic expert.

  
"While you're working on that breaking-and-entering thing?," Anderson demanded. "I'm busy with the fingerprints for that one, you can't expect me to stop in the middle of my work and find some hair samples from a case we gave up on six months ago."

  
"And if you had done your work properly then, you wouldn't have to run these tests all over again now," Sherlock said, dropping his feet from the window sill and turning around with the chair to face Anderson.

  
The look on the other man's face was priceless. He did a full-on double take, gasped, pointed, and stammered: "Y-you ... you ... but... you..."

  
"Eloquent as always," Sherlock said, smirking. "I am sure you are very disappointed to see that I'm not quite as dead and gone as I had everyone believe. So sorry, now be so kind and get back to your lab and do the bloody tests you should have performed six months ago. The state of the closing rate is deplorable."

  
Anderson didn't so much as turn in the direction of the door. In fact, he looked like he was about to faint from sheer surprise and shock.

  
Sherlock sighed. Humans. Always so slow to grasp new concepts. As if he was the first person to have faked his death. Hell, he wouldn't even be the first one to have actually died and come back from that. People did that all the damn time. Humans even wrote books about one of them, like he was somehow special for having been buried in a cave and been forced to do some manual labour in getting out.

  
"Oh, get over it," Donovan snapped, slapping Anderson's face with slightly more force than people commonly found necessary to bring someone out of a daze. "The Freak lied. Hardly a shocker, if you think about it, though it certainly is the biggest bloody lie I've ever heard of. Pull yourself together. It's not like he's half-eaten by maggots."

  
"A sight which he should be unfazed by in any case," Sherlock pointed out blithely. "Seeing as collecting said maggots is also part of his job description."

  
Anderson, startled by Donovan's hands-on approach, finally gathered enough of his questionable wits to open his mouth and prove that he didn't have any: "I see you didn't bring your pet doctor," he sneered. "Guess he finally got sick of you, too, eh? About damn time."

  
Sherlock's vision took on a slightly red tint. He had no idea what his expression looked like, but he noticed both Lestrade and Donovan taking several large steps away from him to the other end of the room and out of the line of fire. Bit not good that. He took several deep breaths to calm down, turning his face into an inscrutable mask.

  
"Actually, I am going to see him this evening," he said coldly. "Not that it is any of your business how I spend my time these days, seeing as I spent the past eighteen months of it traveling around half the globe thanks to you."

  
He straightened to his full height and took several steps closer to Anderson, who actually backed up until he stood with his back against the glass wall. "So how about you stop talking about things you do not understand - which would admittedly turn you into a full-time mute - and go do the work you're being paid to do? Now!" He snapped, and Anderson fled.

  
Sherlock let out his breath and relaxed a bit, turning to find the other two occupants of the room staring at him with something close to fear in their eyes. Good lord, he must have been quite a sight just now. Best do damage control right away.

  
"My apologies," he said stiffly. "I'm afraid I shall require some time to acclimatise to being back. If you'll excuse me now, I've got to see John."

  
Neither Lestrade nor Donovan offered any protest as he left.


	30. Part 7 - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos and apologies for the pain I continue to inflict upon your hearts.

**Chapter 3**

 

Sherlock had not been lying when he had told Anderson he was going to see John. He had simply omitted the fact that John was not going to see _him_.

  
Still shaken from the disaster that should have been the long-awaited reunion he had longed for, Sherlock had decided not to risk approaching John again for the time being. Instead, he would watch him in his new habitat and try to figure out a way to rekindle their former friendship. If part of him hoped for more, he resolutely squashed it down. For the time being, his priority was to simply get John back, to make him talk to him again and come along on cases and to Angelo's and move back into Baker Street and all the other things that had always been incredibly improved by John's presence next to him.

  
Unfortunately, he had absolutely no idea how to achieve any of that. John had been so angry ... he shuddered, huddling deeper into his coat.

  
The wind ruffled his hair but Sherlock paid it no mind. He was already dead, after all; a bit of a cool breeze would have a hard time trying to kill him. And if he fell ... well, he had already proven that jumping off a building did not necessarily equate dying upon impact.

  
Perhaps crouching on the edge of a roof was not the ideal place to be when in proximity or at least potential line of sight of John Watson, but it was the only vantage point Sherlock had been able to make out that would allow him to observe without being spotted immediately. Huddled between two chimneys and wrapped in his dark coat, he was barely visible in the dark. Just another shadow.

  
He sighed, watching his breath form small clouds in the air before dissipating. Incredible, how very much alive he must seem to anyone who cared to look for vital signs. Breath, heart rate, core body temperature... and yet he sometimes almost managed to forget how long it had been since he had actually felt alive. That had never been a problem while John was around, of course. In hindsight, he could clearly see the signs and recognise them for what they were, but back then he had never stopped to notice or wonder at the incredible feeling of life buzzing through his body. He wished he had.

  
On the other side of the street, the lights in the kitchen of the flat on the second floor were switched on and he saw the woman - Mary, dull, boring, predictable - making tea and heating last night's dinner in the microwave. The sight of her made his blood curdle.

  
To think that John had chosen her, had chosen not to wait for Sherlock, to give up on him, and started a relationship with this ... this... _woman_ instead. It was impossible.

  
He knew of course that he was not being terribly logical right now. John had had no way of knowing he would come back, which had rather been the point of the entire operation, but it was still disheartening to see how easily he had been discarded in favour of someone else. Worse, someone who was so obviously ordinary.

  
Just then, John moved into view and Sherlock's treacherous heart leapt in his chest, only to cramp a moment later as John wrapped his arms around Mary from behind, lowering his head to kiss the back of her neck. She was actually shorter than him. Short and blond and ordinary and turning around to smile at John and be smiled at in return. The exact opposite of Sherlock himself.

  
A passerby on the street looked around in confusion, certain he had heard a pained sound of distress from somewhere in the otherwise silent night, but was unable to make out the source. Shrugging, he walked on, oblivious to Sherlock crouching three stories above him.

  
Sherlock didn't move a muscle, his eyes fixed on the window as John and that terrible woman shared a late dinner and left the kitchen, hands linked. The lights in the sitting room stayed off and he knew they were going to bed in a room he couldn't see from his post and didn't want to, doing things he also could not see and had no desire of ever witnessing.

  
_Her small hands on John's body, her mouth on John's lips, John looking at her and telling her how amazing she was, sweaty bodies and endorphins to tie them closer together..._

  
Sherlock felt sick.

  
*****

 

For the rest of the week, Sherlock followed John.

  
Without being obtrusive, of course, and certainly not in any way that could be described as creepy or stalkerish. Oh, Sherlock was certainly aware that it would look like that from the outside, that people would be quick to believe that was what he was doing if anyone recognised the pattern, but it was still far from the truth.

  
After that initial late night up on the roof, Sherlock followed John to work the next day, keeping a carefully calculated distance and staying almost constantly out of sight - so much so, that even had John turned several times, he would not have seen him. John didn't, though. He walked on, utterly oblivious as he passed Sherlock no less than four times. If you wanted to follow someone without them feeling hunted, try and make it look as if they were following you.

  
Once he knew where John's latest workplace, another clinic, was located, Sherlock left and prowled the surrounding area, cementing the exact location in his mind palace and adjusting his slightly out-of-date knowledge on this area of his beloved city. In fact, he quickly realised that he would have to walk the entire city again to take in all the changes that had been made while he had been gone.

  
Later, he followed John home and waited until Mary returned from work as well (nurse, boring). After that, he left. He had no desire to witness so much as a kiss between John and that woman, much less anything else.

  
This went on for the rest of the week and continued over the weekend, where John took Mary out to dinner on Friday night and then to the cinema after. Sherlock spent the time in a nearby art gallery, deducing the artists by their brush strokes.

  
On Saturday it rained, so John and Mary stayed in and watched telly and talked and generally didn't act at all like a supposedly dead man had shown up during John's move into their new flat. It was as if he had never returned at all.

  
And it was this that kept Sherlock from doing what he actually meant to, which was approach John and somehow try and apologise.

  
Clearly, an apology was necessary. Equally clearly, John was too furious to listen long enough for Sherlock to give one.

  
That, in short, was the reason why it was now Tuesday afternoon and Sherlock was following John home from work, still trying to somehow gather the courage to approach him openly and try to talk to him again. He had barely spent any time at the flat at all, had only had a few gulps of water here and there and honestly couldn't remember if he had eaten - not that it was strictly necessary, of course, but it did give additional strength when required.

  
Right now, he needed all the strength he could get.

  
Perhaps it was his distraction that caused him to miss John suddenly disappearing down a narrow alley, his own anxiety effectively barring him from noticing something so essential.

  
Whatever the reason, Sherlock walked on, oblivious - or tried to, at least. When he passed the alley, a hand shot out and grabbed his coat and Sherlock found himself being dragged into the shadows and slammed against a wall for the second time in seven days. By the time his back hit the rough stone, his brain had already managed to catch up with recent events and he was not at all surprised to find John glaring at him, both hands now tightly holding on to the front of his coat just beneath his throat.

  
Admittedly, it was hardly the best way of preventing someone from freeing themselves and making a run for it (or worse: attacking), but luckily for John, Sherlock had absolutely no intention to be anywhere but right where he was. In fact, he felt positively elated about his position. He hadn't been this close to John in so long - and a week seemed like ages - that he could barely decide on which detail to focus first.

  
In the end, John's eyes, pinched tight in anger, and his rough voice won out over his hands on Sherlock and his warm breath on Sherlock's skin and the threatening (arousing) stance of his body.

  
"You've got some nerve," John growled.

  
Sherlock stared at him and didn't know what to say. Of all the things he had imagined to happen at their second meeting, none of his hypothetical scenarios had not at least included some kind of greeting along the lines of 'Hello' or maybe even 'What are you doing here?'. How very interesting of John to completely ignore common courtesy!

  
"Excuse me?" Maybe if he was the polite one, John would be thrown off-guard as well.

  
"Following me home from work," John snapped. "Did you think I didn't notice you stalking me to work and back like a fucking creep?"

  
Sherlock didn't respond, too busy re-routing several neurological pathways and deciding that John Watson should not be allowed to throw the f-word around so carelessly. People might be harmed. Belatedly, he realised that John was looking at him expectantly, obviously awaiting some sort of reply.

  
"Uh, what?"

  
"Don't you dare pretend not to know what I'm talking about," John snapped. "You've been following me around for a bloody week! Spying on me and Mary. Seriously, what's your problem? I distinctly remember telling you I don't want to see you."

  
"You didn't, actually," Sherlock said. He knew, because he had had a mental recording of their entire reunion playing in a constant loop in his brain all week.

  
"Didn't what?," John demanded.

  
"You didn't say you didn't want to see me." Sherlock swallowed, wishing he could look somewhere, anywhere else before his expression betrayed his hateful emotions, but he couldn't bear to take his eyes off John's face for even a second. He had not seen him in far too long to waste even a moment of looking at him now.

  
"Shut up!," John said. "I'm not arguing over semantics with you. In fact, I'm not going to argue with you at all."

  
The relief Sherlock felt at that was so intense he was actually grateful for the dirty wall he was pressed against. He feared not even John's strong hands would have been able to hold him upright otherwise. John didn't want to fight. That was good, wasn't it? He didn't want that, either.

  
John set his jaw in that stubborn expression Sherlock had seen him use a thousand times. "Why did you follow me? _What the hell_ do you want?"

  
"I ..." Sherlock swallowed again, feeling the words bubbling up in his chest and clogging up his throat, each trying to get out first, none of them sufficient to express what it was that he so desperately wanted. "I ... I'm sorry."

  
There. That was a good start, wasn't it? An apology. John had always gone on and on about how Sherlock never apologised for being rude and hurting people. Well, there. He had his apology. He could come home now.

  
John laughed. It didn't sound very happy. "Oh, are you? And of course you think that everything's gonna be all right now because you apologised?" He snorted and shook his head. "Not this time. That stunt you pulled? That was too much."

  
"John," Sherlock began, feeling something akin to panic clawing its way up his throat, shoving all other words aside. "I can explain-"

  
"I DON'T WANT AN EXPLANATION!," John yelled at him, pressing Sherlock just a bit harder against the wall, his fists uncomfortably close to Sherlock's windpipe now. His voice turned dangerously quiet. "I don't want to hear about whatever the next level of the game was that you played with Moriarty. I don't want to know when you came up with the idea to fake your own death or how you achieved it. So just shut up, will you? Christ."

  
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong. The panic made speaking difficult. "But ... That's not what ... I didn't..."

  
"I said _shut up_!," John told him, voice increasing in volume once more. " _I don't care_ how you did it or why or whatever. Caring about anything related to you clearly didn't do me any good, so I'm done. You hear me? _I'm done_."

  
He abruptly released him, taking two big steps back, breathing heavily. "I take back what I said earlier. You couldn't have picked a better time to come back. I moved out, so you can have the flat all to yourself again. I'm sure it'll suit you much better that way, with no one to get in the way of your experiments and your cases and whatever it is you do when you fake your own death and disappear for eighteen months. Just leave me out of it."

  
Something cold and hard as ice slowly slid down Sherlock's oesophagus, settled in his stomach and started spreading from there. "John..."

  
" _Shut up!_ ," John yelled at him, looking about three seconds from punching him in the face. Sherlock flinched away. "Don't ... don't _talk_ to me, don't text me, don't even think about following me again. Just fucking leave me alone. You didn't seem to have any trouble with that for one and a half years, I'm sure continuing won't be a problem. God, I can't even look at you!"

  
The ice was slowly spreading outwards, filling his insides and moving towards his extremities, making him shiver.

  
John, apparently not noticing what his words were doing to him, delivered one final parting shot: "I don't know who you are or what happened to the man I thought I knew, but as far as I'm concerned ... we're done."

  
*****

 

Sherlock stayed leaning against the alley wall long after John had left, staring sightlessly at the bricks opposite him and trying to control his breathing and get a grip on his racing mind.

  
He couldn't hear a thing over the pounding in his ears, wouldn't have noticed if someone had walked right up to him and stolen the scarf from around his neck. It was as if someone had turned down the volume on the entire world and he was left in a pool of oppressive silence, crowding in tighter and tighter around him until he felt he might choke on it.

  
The ice in his veins was slowly working its way through his body, making him shiver and shake as it moved ever closer towards his heart. He felt numb.

  
He had no idea how long he remained there, frozen in exactly the position John had left him. He probably hadn't blinked in ages.

  
Finally, a sound penetrated the bubble of silence he had found himself in. Turning his head required too much effort and he found he didn't care for the source anyway. There was nothing that could happen to him now that would make him care about anything. Maybe never again. He almost hoped so.

  
There were footsteps approaching, familiar in their cadence, and then there were hands on his shoulders and a soft voice talking to him but he couldn't focus, couldn't bring himself to listen or even look at the person in front of him. He shuddered.

  
The grip on his shoulders tightened, subtly steering him away from the wall and down the narrow alley. For a moment, he felt the blinding light of the setting sun on his face, but if there was any warmth to it he didn't feel it. Gentle hands pushed him down and into a car, all black leather and tinted windows and the strong scent of expensive leather polish. He curled up in the far seat, pressing his cheek against the backrest and staring out of the window at the darkening world outside.

  
The soft voice gave instructions that weren't directed at him, irrelevant, and the car pulled away, carrying him to some unknown destination or other. He didn't know. He didn't bother to deduce it. He didn't care.

  
After an undeterminable amount of time had passed, the car slowed to a stop and a door was opened. The same hands reached out for him, guiding him out of the car. He followed like a puppet with its strings cut.

  
Distantly, he became aware that he knew his surroundings, had been there before. An underground garage. A lift carrying them upwards. Wood-panelled hallways and thick, expensive carpets covering the floor, swallowing all sound as he allowed himself to be led along. A door opening. The light of the setting sun shining through the window, illuminating the entire room in shades of gold and orange. It was like stepping right into a fire without getting burned. The hands - soft, warm, trustworthy - propelled him towards the imposing four-poster bed, gently divesting him of his coat and scarf and suit jacket. Making him sit to remove his shoes as well. He obeyed, feeling like a sleepwalker.

  
The voice, intensely familiar and yet so far away, kept talking to him all the while, words running together into an endless stream of familiar sound and comforting noise. Hands on his shoulders pushed him back and he lay down obediently, rolling onto his side and curling up into a ball. He was still shaking. Everything was cold, freezing. His teeth were chattering.

  
The mattress dipped where someone sat next to him, lightly tugging until he moved enough to place his head on the other man's lap, dark fabric warm against his cheek. There was a hand on his head, lightly stroking through the curls. The gesture was familiar, triggering memories of a time long gone by. He felt himself relaxing into the touch ever so slightly.

  
As his brother continued talking to him, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on Mycroft's voice, but all he heard were his own thoughts, one sentence on constant repeat.

  
_'He doesn't want me.'_


	31. Part 7 - Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

The stupor Sherlock found himself in lasted for an entire two and a half days. When he finally opened his eyes to the world again, he discovered he was in his old bedroom, the one that had been his from the day this house had been built and ready to be inhabited. There was a certain sense of comfort in that knowledge. Yet Sherlock couldn't help but remember that the last time he had been here, he had been in a similarly bad condition just after jumping off of St Bart's hospital.

  
If this trend continued, he would always associate this room with being separated from John for unknown lengths of time. He shuddered, forcing himself not to think about his latest reason for ending up here.

  
Instead, he threw the heavy duvet off, wondering when exactly Mycroft had covered him with it and left him alone. It was quite surprising that he had been willing to stay with him at all, Sherlock mused. Perhaps his brother was growing soft. He would have to ask him.

  
Stretching to loosen up his muscles, he left his room and walked down the familiar hallways to Mycroft's office. If his brother was in the house at all, this was where he would most likely be found and Sherlock knew that Mycroft would never leave him alone while he was in no state to take note of his surroundings, let alone any potential threats. As it was, Mycroft himself was the most dangerous thing anyone could be unlucky or stupid enough to cross.

  
There were the unmistakable sounds of someone talking in rapid, angry Arabic on the other side of the door. Sherlock didn't bother knocking. Despite his token protest and claims of secrecy, Mycroft had never actually minded Sherlock knowing what he was doing, mostly because he knew his younger brother didn't care and had no interest in spilling state secrets to anyone.

  
As expected, Mycroft was sitting behind his ridiculously large, antique desk (though not nearly as antique as Mycroft himself) and arguing with someone over the phone. Sherlock had no interest in Saudi-Arabian politics at the best of times, so he ambled over to the window and watched the gardeners going about their business outside, deducing them just to see if he still could. After he had so massively miscalculated where John was concerned, he felt slightly off his game.

  
Mycroft ended the phone call with a decisive 'click' and turned to him. "I see you have found your way back."

  
Sherlock turned and sneered at him. "Stating the obvious, Mycroft? Since when do you stoop to such trivialities?"

  
"Merely making small talk, brother dear. Not that you would know how that works."

  
And just like that, they were back to their normal form of communication. Sherlock felt himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of their banter. "At least I know how to get off my arse and get some exercise. I see you've been putting on weight again."

  
Mycroft glowered at him. "A mere momentary setback."

  
Sherlock tilted his head, taking in his suit, expertly cut to hide the additional weight. "Five pounds are considered a momentary setback in your diet? I shudder to imagine you after a major one."

  
"Enough of this," Mycroft said, putting an end to their squabbling with a lazy flick of his hand. "Would you like to tell me what happened in that alley that left you unable to function on even the most basic cognitive level?"

  
Frowning, Sherlock lowered himself into one of the comfy chairs in front of Mycroft's desk. "I would have thought you already knew."

  
His brother shook his head. "When I was informed that John had intercepted you and dragged you into an alley, I decided to turn it into a temporary blind spot as far as surveillance is concerned." He hesitated. "I thought you might like some privacy."

  
Sherlock swallowed, the memory of that conversation still fresh in his mind. There had not been enough new input to diffuse the memory even in the slightest. Not that such a thing would have been possible anyway. "I ... appreciate the gesture," he said slowly.

  
"Clearly it did not work out as well as we had hoped," Mycroft prodded gently.

  
"We?," Sherlock echoed.

  
His brother raised an eyebrow. "Do not think I do not care about your emotional state. I should hope we are long past that."

  
He decided to ignore this. "It did not go the way I thought it would, no."

  
"John is still angry?"

  
"So you know about what happened at Baker Street, then?," Sherlock demanded. "An alley was a perfect spot to grant me some privacy, but my own flat wasn't?!"

  
Mycroft crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "I have no idea what happened at Baker Street upon your return," he said calmly. "The surveillance equipment there has been shut off from the moment you walked through the front door. I did, however, notice a suspicious absence of John by your side, just as I saw you trailing him for a week. Therefore, something substantial must have occurred. I was ... concerned he might not have reacted well."

  
"He didn't," Sherlock confirmed, almost absently, his mind latching on to a different detail in his brother's speech. "What do you mean, the surveillance equipment at Baker Street? There was none when I left, we had an agreement on that."

  
To his surprise - and instant suspicion - Mycroft hesitated. It was just a fraction of a second, but it was more than enough. Mycroft was never unsure about anything. "What are you not telling me?"

  
"There were some ... complications after you left," his brother admitted. He took one look at Sherlock's expression and held up a placating hand. "Nothing like that, no, it had nothing to do with Moriarty's people. Your John was ... not well. He moved out shortly after your death and took up residence in that terrible bedsit he used to live in before you met," he explained. "I am afraid I was a bit slack in my surveillance, too busy dealing with your disappearance in Italy and the disassembly of the Network to pay proper attention."

  
"What happened?," Sherlock demanded hoarsely, feeling as if he had been dumped in ice water.

  
"He turned to drink," Mycroft said calmly. "Crawled into a bottle and completely let himself go. You owe DI Lestrade a huge thank you. He caught wind of the situation and straightened him out. Made him move back to Baker Street, got him away from the bottle, helped him find a job at the clinic he now works at ... he kept him alive, basically."

  
Sherlock nodded. He would make sure to discharge his debt to Lestrade at some point, once he had come up with something of equal worth to John's life. "And the Hound?"

  
"Ah ... now there is a mystery I have been unable to solve," Mycroft said, and that in itself was more worrying than even the idea of John drinking himself to death. "I expected it to disappear once the Network and the resulting danger to John was eliminated."

  
"It is still around, then? I confess I did not pay attention when I finally saw John again."

  
"Unfortunately. And I have no idea why."

  
For Mycroft to confess not to know anything was practically unheard of. Sherlock would have been impressed, if he hadn't been so worried about what it meant.

  
The moment passed quickly, however. "Nevertheless, that still does not answer my question. What happened that left you in such a state?"

  
Sherlock hesitated, unwilling to remember the details. And yet ... this was, as far as he knew, unprecedented. Perhaps Mycroft would have more information, but either way, he had to know.

  
He drew a deep breath, not daring to look anywhere near his brother as he replied. "John said he doesn't want to see me ever again," he informed the ancient rug on the floor."He said we are done and he neither cares for my reasons nor anything else concerning my person."

  
There were several moments of silence in which he stared at the intricate weavings of the carpet and tried very hard not to remember the absolute agony of realising that, after everything he had done to keep him, he had lost John.

  
He was so lost in his own head that he actually flinched when Mycroft laid his hands on his shoulders. He had not even noticed his brother get up and round his desk.

  
"Are you quite sure that is what he said?," he inquired. "It sounds ... hardly believable, actually."

  
" _'Just fucking leave me alone'_ ," Sherlock quoted tiredly. "That's what he said. Among other things that I do not wish to repeat or even remember. Clearly my presence in his life is no longer required nor accepted. He has moved in with his ... his girlfriend ... and seems to have no interest in ever returning to Baker Street at all." His voice broke at the last word.

  
Mycroft's hands squeezed his shoulders. "I am ... deeply sorry."

  
When Sherlock glanced up, incredulous, his brother actually looked like he meant it.

  
"I thought ... I thought he would be _glad_ ," he confessed. "After the cemetery ... I thought he'd be happy to see me."

  
Mycroft sighed. "It appears human emotion, complex as it is, has once again blindsided you, brother. But to refuse all contact forever ... that seems a bit harsh, even for your doctor. I never took him for someone to hold a grudge for this long. You said he would not hear your explanations?"

  
"If he had, things might be a bit different now," Sherlock said bitterly. "But where would I even start? I can hardly tell him the truth."

  
"No," Mycroft agreed. "He would not believe you unless you also showed him, which cannot be done in a public space and might not end well, either. I am afraid you shall have to wait and have patience. Perhaps he will change his mind once he has had time to really think about the situation. I am convinced he has missed you keenly these past eighteen months. He will come around, as they say."

  
Sherlock hung his head. "If you say so."

  
Personally, he did not hold on to too much hope.

  
*****

 

In the following days, Sherlock could be found at New Scotland Yard from early morning until late at night. Once, Lestrade arrived in his office only to find the consulting detective stretched out on his back on the floor, reading a case file and studying crime scene pictures. In short, he was in the very same position Lestrade had left him in the night before.

  
"Have you been here all night?"

  
Sherlock blinked at him, tearing himself away from the file. "I don't know. Has the sun set and gone up again?"

  
"Yes, it bloody well has."

  
"Then ... yes."

  
Lestrad sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Have you at least eaten something?"

  
"Food is boring."

  
"How about something to drink? Tea? I could-"

  
"No! I don't want _tea_ ," Sherlock hissed at him.

  
Lestrade held up his hand in a placating manner. "Fine. Geez, I was just asking. No need to rip my head off." He deposited his bag by his desk and sat down, frowning when he realised that the computer was already running. He knew he had shut it down the night before. "Have you hacked into my computer again?"

  
Sherlock snorted. "Oh please. It's hardly hacking when I know your password."

  
The DI sighed and let the matter drop. "Have you at least found anything?"

  
"Solved these," Sherlock said, gesturing in the vague direction of a pile of files next to the bin. "I made some notes in the files, read them and make the necessary arrests."

  
"You're not my bloody boss," Lestrade grumbled but did as he was told. God, he had missed this. As he flicked through the files and found that familiar handwriting in the margins of reports and lists of evidence once more, pointing out mistakes and oversights and conclusions that should be obvious, he felt as if things were finally returning to normal. And that in itself was already cause for concern, wasn't it? Surely this madness should not be considered normal?

  
"Are you ever going to tell me where you've been since you supposedly died?," he asked idly.

  
"Here and there," Sherlock said, not looking up from the file he was reading. "Rome for a bit. Tibet. New Delhi."

  
Lestrade whistled. "Got around a bit, eh?"

  
"Farther than you could possibly imagine," Sherlock muttered, so quietly Lestrade wasn't sure if it was addressed at him. Louder, he said: "The Network was large."

  
"You could have asked for help, you know," Lestrade told him, deciding to air out some of his own anger. "Did you think I liked doubting you, seeing your reputation torn to pieces and your name dragged through the mud? I'd have helped. All you had to do was tell me what was going on. No, scratch that. I would've helped you even if you hadn't told me. All you had to do was ask."

  
That made Sherlock turn and look at him. "You're angry," he said and something flashed across his features, gone too quickly for Lestrade to identify. "Well?"

  
"Well what?," Lestrade asked, confused.

  
"Are you going to tell me to piss off and not come back?," Sherlock demanded. "If so, please don't feel you have to mince your words. But I'd prefer to solve this case first, we can't have a budding serial killer running around London."

  
"Serial killer?," Lestrade echoed, then returned to the issue at hand. "And why would I do such a thing? Yeah, I'm pissed you left. Mostly I'm angry with myself because obviously you didn't trust me to have your back when you needed me to. Why would I tell you to piss off?"

  
Sherlock shrugged, his face expressionless as he returned his attention to the file in his hands, but Lestrade thought he saw his shoulders sag with relief.

  
He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Wait ... is that ... is that what John-"

  
"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock interrupted him firmly. The look in his eyes was pleading.

  
Lestrade swallowed. "All right, okay. Sorry. Won't mention it again." He hesitated, swallowing dozens of questions he had concerning this latest development. "So ... a serial killer?"

  
Sherlock nodded and launched into a high-speed deduction.

  
Yet, as the detective talked and got up and showed him the crime scene pictures, pointing out 'obvious' clues and detailing things no one else could have noticed, Lestrade could not help but think that he didn't seem as enthusiastic as he used to be. In fact, Sherlock was almost muted in comparison to, well, before. He decided then and there to keep an eye on him, just in case. He was not going to repeat the mistake he had made with John and allow Sherlock to fall back on his own drug of choice.

  
He was just about to ask more questions about the case when the door to his office was thrown open and none other than the Chief Superintendent entered.

  
"What's this, then?," he demanded, not wasting time on a 'Good morning'.

  
"Good morning, sir," Lestrade said, not being one to forget his manners in front of a superior. "What is what?"

  
"Consulting again, are we?," the Chief demanded.

  
Sherlock, who had been facing the map on the wall, turned around. "Oh, you again," he said. "I believe we met briefly the night you came to wrongfully arrest me. Sherlock Holmes."

  
The Chief stared, as well as he ought to. "You! You're dead!"

  
"Then you're hallucinating and should not be working," Sherlock informed him.

  
"I am most certainly not!" He drew himself up to his full, not very impressive height.

  
"Well, then obviously I'm not dead," Sherlock said.

  
"I demand that you leave this building immediately," the Superintendent snapped. "You have no business being here, bothering Detective Inspector Lestrade."

  
"Do you feel bothered, Lestrade?"

  
"Not at all."

  
"There you go," Sherlock said, as if that settled it. "No one's bothered, you can leave now."

  
" _I'm_ bothered!"

  
"Then you should have said so right away," Sherlock told him calmly. "I suggest you go and pretend you didn't see me so as to avoid any further excitement. It can't be good for your heart."

  
"How dare-"

  
"Is there a problem?," a cultured voice asked from behind the Chief and everyone turned to look at Mycroft Holmes, who smiled benignly.

  
"And who are you?," the Chief Superintendent demanded, clearly feeling suicidal.

  
Mycroft wordlessly handed him his card and patiently waited for the other man to blanch. "I do hope my brother has not been bothering you?," he asked mildly. "He does so love to assist the police in their enquiries."

  
The Chief displayed his survival instincts by giving the only correct response. "Certainly not, Mr Holmes, sir. We, uh, are quite happy to have him here."

  
Mycroft smiled the smile he usually saved for people who were half an inch away from falling down a very steep cliff and needed encouragement not to take the last step. "I am happy to hear it. Now excuse me, I was just dropping by on my way to Her Majesty to see if everything is all right here. Sherlock, do call on me for tea later, won't you?"

  
He was gone as quickly as he had appeared and the Chief had no choice but to escort him to the elevator, from where he promptly returned to his own office and decided to ignore the presence of Sherlock Holmes and his involvement in any of the Yard's work to the best of his ability. Being ignorant was something Sherlock would have attested him a mastery in.

  
*****

 

Several weeks passed following the incident with the Chief Superintendent. Christmas and New Year's came and went. Sherlock continued to spend most of his time at New Scotland Yard or prowling London, getting reacquainted with the city he had missed so much while he had been gone. Too much had changed in his absence and he was busy updating his mental map, including all the latest additions and removals, changes in traffic signs and current construction sites.

  
He did not see or hear from John, but thought of him constantly.

  
He could barely stand to be inside the flat, where every surface triggered dozens of memories of John, where some of the things he had forgotten to take with him remained behind, mocking Sherlock with the reminder of all that he used to have. John's second-favourite tea cup, a handful of the terrible mystery novels he loved to read, an old t-shirt that had somehow ended up stuffed between the cushions of the sofa. He couldn't bear to remove them, yet every time he found another small item his heart would squeeze painfully and his breath would catch and he'd have to hide in his room; the only place John hadn't left anything substantial behind.

  
Oh, he had been in there at some point, certainly, but it must have been months ago. Several of Sherlock's books on the shelves were clearly disturbed but there had been a thick layer of dust covering everything, suggesting that no one had entered the room in quite some time. He wondered if John had found being in his room too painful, the same way he himself could not even bear contemplating walking up the stairs and entering John's empty, desolate bedroom. The mere thought made him shiver. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  
He tried not to spend too much time inside the flat, much to Mrs Hudson's disappointment. He barely managed to get through the door these days before she accosted him, dragging him into her kitchen for tea and biscuits so she could talk at him and occasionally ruffle his hair or pat his arm. After a while, he realised that she had been lonely too, so he made an effort to at least go see her, even if he did not actually set a single foot upstairs.

  
It wasn't enough.

  
He worked, he was nice to Mrs Hudson, he spent hours holed up at Scotland Yard, he managed to avoid St. Bart's hospital entirely ... and it wasn't enough.

  
Every day, he found himself missing John more. His absence was gnawing at him, his insides either cold as ice or twisting and turning in the wrong direction. Sometimes, his hands would start shaking, a faint tremor, barely visible but still there. He hated it.

  
Sometimes, he opened his mouth to ask John something, to demand his phone or a specific picture from the file that lay just out of his reach, only to catch himself at the last moment and look around, feeling oddly confused as if he had missed a step while walking down the stairs.

  
And every day, he made a conscious effort not to let it show. Every day, he pushed it all down and away and went about his business, pretending he wasn't having trouble functioning without John by his side. He thought he was doing quite a good job, too. So far, no one seemed to have noticed.

  
*****

 

"You can't let this continue," Donovan said firmly, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards Lestrade's office.

  
"Well, what do you want me to do? Lock him in the office and have a 'talk' with him? Because we both know he'd beat me unconscious and break out before I'd gotten past the first three words," Lestrade sighed, frowning past her head and into his office, where Sherlock was bent over his desk, scribbling angrily into a case file.

  
"He might actually stay for this conversation if you say the right things," Sally pointed out. "But it certainly can't stay this way. Look at him, he's bloody miserable. Everyone's noticed. Even DI Jensen asked what was up with him the other day and he can't stand Holmes."

  
Lestrade shrugged. "Granted, Sherlock hasn't been his usual self since he came back. He's acting a bit ..."

  
"Manic?," Sally suggested. "Desperate? Like a junkie in need of a fix?"

  
He flinched at the last part and she pressed her advantage. "How long do you think he'll last before he gives in to temptation and finds a dealer and some cocaine?"

  
"Donovan..."

  
"No, really. Be honest here. Even for a freak he's acting strange. I've called in a favour with one of the guys manning the front desk at night. Do you know how often Holmes has gone home in the past three weeks after we left work?"

  
Lestrade sighed. "Go on, tell me."

  
"Four times," Sally said gravely. "In three weeks, he pulled all-nighters constantly, except for _four_ nights and god knows where he went after he left the building."

  
All right, so maybe the situation was a bit more dire than Lestrade had initially thought. "Fine," he said. "I'll go and talk to him."

  
"I don't think you should, actually," Sally said calmly.

  
"But you just said-"

  
"I know what I said," she snapped, rolling her eyes. "But on second thought, I think you should talk to John instead. Sherlock's not gonna tell you what the hell happened, so you might as well try asking the other half of the former dynamic duo over a pint or two. Perhaps drop a hint or a dozen that he's being a bit harsh."

  
"Can't blame the bloke," Lestrade snorted. "If your ... whatever the hell they were ... had faked his death on you, you'd be bloody furious, too."

  
"Of course," Sally agreed. "But I'd also be bloody glad to have them back. And I'd at least ask for their reasons. Because somehow I don't think the Freak even got a chance to explain before ... well, whatever happened."

  
"Fine. I'll talk to him. Bloody hell, woman, you're the last person I'd have expected to champion for Sherlock."

  
"Well," Sally shrugged. "Someone has to. And I've got a debt to pay off."

  
He couldn't argue with that, so he texted John instead.

  
*****

  
They met at their usual pub, the one they had been going to every once in a while since John had first started following Sherlock around. Of course, Lestrade thought sardonically as he ordered two pints and settled at their usual table in the corner to wait, these days it was a more apt description to say Sherlock was following John around. Or would have, if he wasn't drowning himself in work. The last time he had seen Sherlock anywhere close to being this manic, he had just gotten off the drugs and was struggling to stay clean.

  
Before he could give that troubling thought his full attention, John sank into the chair opposite him with a grunt of relief and a friendly greeting.

  
They exchanged the usual How-do-you-do's and took a sip of their respective pints.

  
"Quite a surprise when you texted me," John said, putting down his glass. "I haven't heard from you in weeks."

  
Lestrade huffed. "I was up to my arse in reopened cold cases, thanks to His Highness."

  
He was watching John closely, but there really had been no need for that - the tightening of his mouth was unmistakable. "So he's finally gotten 'round to letting you in on the big secret too, huh?," he asked cooly. "Should've guessed he'd haunt you next."

  
"And what a haunting it has been so far," Lestrade said. "Almost gave me and Donovan a heart attack when he walked in as if he'd only been gone for a quick smoke. Anderson almost fainted."

  
One corner of John's mouth twitched fractionally. "Bet he loved that."

  
Lestrade sighed, deciding to go for honesty. "I don't think he loves anything much these days," he said. "Seems a bit lost, actually."

  
"So?"

  
"So what the hell happened between you two? I'm _this_ close to arranging 24-hour-surveillance for him just to make sure he's not going back to the drugs. And after the shit you pulled while he was gone, I would have expected you to be at least a tiny bit glad to see him."

  
Seeing John's thunderous expression, he held up a hand. "I'm not saying I can't relate. Wanted to punch him in the nose myself, really, and you have every right to be bloody pissed. But really, there's gotta be a limit."

  
John, who had looked at least slightly concerned at the mention of drugs, sighed and looked away. "It's not that simple, Greg. His death screwed me up pretty good. Learning that it was all for nothing because he was bloody alive the entire time didn't exactly make things better."

  
"And you think he's been doing fine all this time?," Lestrade demanded. "Good lord, have you even looked at him properly? The last time he slept was probably around Easter."

  
"Am I supposed to care about how he's doing now?," John asked, now definitely sounding angry. "He sure didn't care about how I was doing in those eighteen months while he was away, did he? As far as I'm concerned, he can continue in that vein. I certainly plan to."

  
Lestrade looked at John then, really looked at him. He noticed the deep shadows under his eyes and the near constant frown lines around his eyes and mouth. "Not working out very well, is it?"

  
Instead of responding, John took a sip from his pint. Setting the glass back down, he sighed. "Listen, if I'd known you only wanted to talk about ...," he paused, apparently not able to bring himself to say Sherlock's name, then gave up. "I wouldn't have shown up, is what I'm saying. I haven't seen ... him in months. So can we please not talk about ... him ... anymore?"

  
Seeing that his friend was serious, Lestrade gave in and they spent the rest of their meeting talking about sports and John's struggle to put up an IKEA shelf that had come with instructions in Italian.

  
*****

 

Mycroft hadn't seen his brother since The Incident. Of course that didn't mean he wasn't fully aware of where Sherlock was at all times and what he was doing, but he had not seen him in person since their conversation in his office. To be entirely honest, he had been trying to avoid another encounter. Sherlock had looked ... well, 'bad' wasn't a strong enough term for it. He had never seen anyone look like that, least of all his brother.

  
He knew his brother was a passionate person, of course - anyone who had ever seen Sherlock work or play the violin couldn't help but realise that. But this was something else entirely. This was somehow worse, as if all that energy had just kept on building and building with no outlet and then been sucked from his brother with nothing but a few well-chosen words.

  
Sherlock had been barely more than a ghost in solid form that day and even now Mycroft still shuddered at the unnatural compliance his brother had shown in being manhandled into the car and through the house to his old room. Usually, his brother would have fought him every step of the way. This time, however? Nothing.

  
It had been a deeply unsettling experience and only confirmed Mycroft's opinion on the whole subject of sentiment. It was better to stay far away from such foolishness. Clearly it was far too late for Sherlock to take such an action.

  
And although his brother had recovered from the shock and had returned to what passed for his normal life, Mycroft had kept a close eye on him, just in case.

  
Now, a follow-up visit was no longer avoidable. Even the people at Scotland Yard had noticed how affected his brother was by the enforced separation from John. It was time to have a talk with Sherlock before someone decided to intervene on his behalf. Lestrade's conversation with John in the pub had already been a first step in that direction and Mycroft knew he had to at least prepare Sherlock for the possibility of further action being taken by his well-meaning friend to reconcile the two of them.

  
That realisation, in a nutshell, was why he was now standing in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, staring down at the figure curled up on the sofa.

  
The sight alone was enough to make him very glad indeed that he had taken the trouble of coming here.

  
Pale skin, tainted a sickly yellow, was stretched over a too-thin body, dark curls hung lank and unkempt and his brother's eyes were sunken in deep shadows that looked like bruises over too sharply defined cheekbones.

  
He had to struggle not to recoil from the sight. No angel should look like this, ever. Sherlock mustn't have eaten anything in at least a week, possibly more, and sleep was clearly something he had opted to go without for an equal amount of time. Sheer exhaustion had finally caught up with him, it seemed, and was the only reason Mycroft had the opportunity to study his brother for as long as he liked.

  
He did not like it at all.

  
Sherlock looked sick. In fact, he looked like he was only a few short steps away from death - a ridiculous thought considering his status, but a fact nonetheless. Even just after he had fallen, with his back still an open, bleeding wound, he had looked healthier than this.

  
"Are you quite done staring?" Sherlock's hoarse voice broke the silence and one eyelid fluttered open.

  
Mycroft was sure his brother would have given him a baleful stare had he been capable of it. Instead, he merely looked dead.

  
"You are unwell," he said calmly, not bothering to respond to the question. "I am concerned."

  
Sherlock huffed an exasperated breath. "I'll be fine."

  
It might have sounded more believable if his voice hadn't cracked on the last word.

  
"Indeed?"

  
"Of course." He opened his other eye as well and the infinite sadness in his gaze was like staring into an abyss. "I have to be."

  
After a moment's deliberation, Mycroft moved to sit on the very edge of the sofa, careful not to disturb his brother. He looked frail enough to break under the slightest touch.

  
"It seems to me you are in far worse shape than even you yourself are aware of," he said quietly. "This has to stop, Sherlock. You will get him back eventually. It may take time, but you will get him back."

  
"How long, then?," Sherlock demanded. "A month? A year? A decade? Several? Is this what you're trying to tell me? That I might have to wait for him to die before -"

  
He broke off, shaking his head. "I do not believe I can make it that long."

  
It was the most direct admission of weakness he would ever lower himself to in front of Mycroft and it was all the more concerning for that reason.

  
"Perhaps it is time for you to consider other options," Mycroft suggested softly. "Your friends are concerned for you and DI Lestrade will likely take action soon in order to push you and John back together. I'm afraid such an action would not end well. I thought the problem would rectify itself in time, but I admit it seems less likely with each passing day."

  
Sherlock snorted. "Believe me, I noticed."

  
He sounded tired. Exhausted, even. Yet before Mycroft could respond to the catty reply, his brother continued. "What options, then?"

  
He hesitated. "You won't like them."

  
"None of them can be worse than this." He lifted a bony hand in a vague gesture to encompass his current state. Mycroft reached one hand into his jacket pocket and typed out a message to his assistant without bothering to look at the screen.

  
"If your health does not improve and you do not take pains to ensure it does, I will be forced to send you back up," he said calmly.

  
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his pale complexion turned ashen. "No."

  
"Oh yes."

  
"I can't go back, Mycroft. Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I can't go. There are other factors in play now. You should know, had you bothered to stop and think about the implications of my actions."

  
He did so and the results were ... interesting. "I see."

  
Sherlock smiled a sardonic smile. "Indeed." A pause. Then: "I believe you mentioned options, plural."

  
Mycroft nodded, shoving all the implications his brother had just brought to his attention aside. "Since leaving is not an option, I suggest you consider deleting the whole incident."

  
"Delete what exactly?," Sherlock asked, suspicious.

  
Mycroft blinked. "I thought that was obvious. If the continued remembrance of recent events reduces you to this state, I suggest you delete the cause. Perhaps it is time to erase John from your mind palace."

  
There was no response from his brother and he hadn't expected one. Instead, he rose and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Do think about it, will you? Anthea will be over shortly with food and other necessities. She has strict orders to stay until she has made sure you have eaten an adequate meal and gone to bed to get some rest. I shall be sending Inspector Lestrade over to keep an eye on you. If your physical state does not improve within the week, I will return and perform the necessary adjustments in your mind myself."

  
"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock growled at him, looking less threatening than an angry kitten.

  
Mycroft smiled sadly. "I will do whatever I deem necessary to keep you alive and well, brother mine."


	32. Part 7 - Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank your for your amazing comments!

**Chapter 5**

 

Sherlock groaned as he pressed another nicotine patch to his forearm, bringing the total up to four. If John were here, he would have grabbed hold of his arm and removed each and every one of them, scolding Sherlock the entire time. But John was not here and the four patches remained on his skin. There was no lecture.

  
He closed his eyes, wondering not for the first time if it was possible to sink into the cushions of the sofa and simply disappear. It wasn't as if anyone who mattered would notice.

  
There was no case to work on, no experiment could hold his interest, he had prowled every part of London. He had even taken Mycroft's threat to heart and made sure he spent some time eating and sleeping. Mostly, it was just another way to pass the time. There was nothing to do and he was _bored_. Bored and alone and at home - what used to be home - and missing John.

  
God, how he missed John.

  
He hadn't known that it was possible to miss someone that strongly. At times like this, when his body and mind were idle, it felt as if the lack of John was consuming him, a localised black hole by his side, sucking him in bit by bit.

  
Sherlock shuddered and tried to pretend he wasn't there. He wasn't there and there was nothing missing and he was perfectly fine and John would be back, he had to come back, he had to ...

  
The phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts.

  
He lunged for the device on the coffee table, almost dropping it in his haste. Lestrade. Finally.

  
"Yes?"

  
"There's been a murder. Looks nasty. Wanna come and have a look?"

  
"Where?"

  
"Belgravia."

  
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up before Lestrade could say anything else, jumping off the sofa and tearing off two of the patches. No need for them anymore, he had his distraction now. He'd keep the other two in case the murder proved interesting. One never knew.

  
He was still in his dressing gown and pajama bottoms, an indulgence he rarely made time for these days, and growled in frustration at having to change. He was out of the gown before he'd made it to the kitchen, his t-shirt and trousers ending up on the floor in the hallway. Less than two minutes later, he was pulling on his coat and scarf over his usual suit and bounding down the stairs two at a time.

  
The black hole followed him out of the door and into the cab and all the way to the crime scene, as it always did. At least when he had a case to focus on, he could pretend not to notice its presence.

  
He knew something was different the moment he climbed out of the cab. Sergeant Donovan, who had been waiting by the red tape fencing off the building, turned to him with a look of such relief on her face he felt tempted to turn and check if there was someone behind him.

  
"Thank god you're here," Sally greeted him, increasing his confusion. Even if her antagonism appeared to have eased a bit since his return from the dead, she had never expressed anything but fluctuating levels of annoyance at his presence.

  
He stepped up to her and leaned forward to get a better look at her face. "You're not exhibiting any signs of drug usage," he pointed out. "Nor do you smell of alcohol. Are you running a fever?"

  
She rolled her eyes at him. "Very funny." She gestured at the officers milling around outside the building. "It's this crime scene ... something about it just seems ... wrong. Everyone feels it. There's already talk about the place being haunted," she explained, her lips curling into a sneer that Sherlock mimicked. Haunted indeed. If there was a ghost, he'd already know. Ghosts hated his kind with a passion.

  
Yet, as he looked around at the faces of the PCs and other members of the force milling about, he couldn't escape the fact that they all had that look on their faces, the one usually reserved for child murders. "Children?," he asked.

  
Sally shook her head. "No, that's why it's so confusing. Murder's always wrong, of course, but this one just ... feels bad, I guess. Evil."

  
Both his eyebrows went up at that description. Donovan was not one to talk nonsense like this. "Good thing I'm here then. Apparently you lot need someone who operates on cool logic."

  
"Have at it," she told him, lifting the tape so he wouldn't have to duck too far. The uncommon courtesy only increased the odd feel of the entire situation.

  
Brushing past her, he entered the house and walked up the creaking staircase to the first floor, where he could hear Lestrade's voice barking commands. The usual hustle and bustle of a crime scene enveloped him, yet everything seemed weirdly muted. There were no crude, dark-humoured jokes as were usually used to ease some of the tension and make standing around a dead body more bearable, and he caught more than one person looking distinctly relieved at the sight of him. Such a thing had never happened before.

  
Feeling a tiny bit apprehensive and hating himself for it, he entered the bedroom, which was quite obviously the heart of the crime scene.

  
He took one look, then turned around and walked right back out, staring blankly at the pale yellow hallway wall as he took several deep breaths.

  
"Eerie, isn't it?," Donovan asked quietly, having followed him into the building.

  
"You're right," he said slowly. "This is definitely wrong."

  
Taking another deep breath and steeling himself, he returned into the bedroom. None of the people inside commented on his behaviour and he gathered they had all experienced a similar reaction. Possibly worse in some cases, considering the paleness of some of the faces. He tuned them out and focused all his attention on the victim.

  
She was kneeling on the floor by the foot of the double bed, her arms propped up on the mattress, her hands folded and her head bowed as if in prayer. Not a day over twenty-three, if he had to guess at her age. Long blonde hair hung in heavy curls halfway down her chest, having been parted at the back and brushed forward over both shoulders. She wasn't wearing any clothes.

  
It was quite a peaceful scene, actually, or would have been, if it weren't for the splashes of bright red marring her skin. Whoever had killed her - he bent forward, saw the single knife wound beneath her left breast, straight into the heart - had used her blood to draw two scarlet wings onto her back.

  
Sherlock stared.

  
He had never seen her before, yet he felt sick to his stomach, something inside him squeezing tight as if in the grasp of an iron fist. He felt as if he had just lost a friend, or perhaps a family member. Apart from that, it _felt_ wrong. Looking at her was like looking at pictures of starving children - something that made every single instinct scream at you, telling you that what you were seeing was wrong and should not be happening.

  
He swallowed roughly, feeling his hands begin to shake.

  
"I need to make a phone call," he said hoarsely and hurried from the room.

  
He only breathed in when he was back outside on the pavement, filling his nose and lungs with the damp London air. Despite his best attempts to keep his composure, he felt a violent shudder rip through his body. He had no idea what had caused such a violent reaction in him, but every instinct he possessed was screaming at him. Something terrible was happening.

  
*****

 

In the end, he did convince himself not to jump into a cab and get the hell away from this place. Instead, he forced his instinctive horror far into the back of his head, away from his rational thought processes, and returned to the bedroom and the gruesome display of Linda Walisham's body. That, at least, was the name Lestrade gave him when he re-entered the room and forced himself to look at the crime scene the same way he would at any other.

  
"Time of death?"

  
"Approximately five hours ago, give or take half an hour, is what the medical examiner said," Lestrade informed him, consulting his notes.

  
Sherlock nodded, crouching beside the body and pulling on gloves before grasping her right hand, trying to move her fingers. "Her killer left about two hours ago, then. Whoever found her might have missed him by minutes."

  
"What makes you say that?" The DI frowned and Donovan, who was standing next to him, crossed her arms with a huff.

  
"Look at her body," Sherlock instructed, gesturing at it. "She's in full rigor mortis. As you well know, that sets in approximately one hour after death. But whoever killed her also arranged her in this position - he would have needed to fixate the body somehow to keep her in this way until rigor mortis had set in fully. That's another two hours right there."

  
"But there's nothing to suggest the body has been fixated!," Lestrade protested. "No ropes, no hooks, not a single mark on her skin. Nothing."

  
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, examining the victim's wrists and ankles. "And yet here she is, in a position no body would stay in without having been made to. He must have used something to encase the entire body. Something that would hold for two hours and be easily removed."

  
He bent further down, pulling out his magnifying glass to examine the creme-coloured carpet before moving up to inspect her hair.

  
"He could have put her in plaster, but there is nothing about the body to suggest he did. It certainly would have left traces and she was definitely killed here. Have you checked the bathroom?"

  
Lestrade nodded at one of the officers lingering by the door. The young man disappeared and returned a minute later, shaking his head. "No traces of plaster in any of the bathrooms, sir. I've told PC Jenkins to check out the cellar."

  
There was the sound of a voice calling from downstairs and he returned to the stairs, coming back within moments. "No traces there, either."

  
Sherlock nodded approvingly, both at the PC taking the initiative and the killer's intelligence. "Whoever did this found something other than plaster, something quicker and less messy with the same results. Something to encase the entire body and leave no marks at all. Clever."

  
"Try not to sound too admiring," Donovan told him coolly. "It's a murder, not a display of intelligence."

  
"Actually, it's both," he corrected her, still examining the victim's hair. "I haven't been here for longer than ten minutes and already I can tell that there is something not right about this. It's so obvious I noticed it before I even made it into the house. And you lot picked up on it, too, going by your reactions."

  
"It's what he did to her, is what gets me," Lestrade muttered. "We get a whole bunch of nutters in this job, but I've never seen anyone do ... that ... to anyone." He gestured at the young woman's back, at the outlines of scarlet wings drawn onto her skin. "Who does that? Why waste time doing that? And arranging the body in this way ..."

  
"It's like he wanted her to give a certain impression," Donovan said.

  
Lestrade shrugged. "Well, curly blonde hair, wings on her back, praying ... she looks like an angel."

  
Sherlock snorted softly. "Do you believe in angels, Lestrade?"

  
"Hell, I don't know." The DI ran a hand through his hair. "I'm certainly not gonna rule them out just because I've never seen one. Guess I don't even have to ask your opinion on the subject of religion, eh?"

  
"The Church is a terrible concept invented by greedy, power-hungry people with the sole purpose of making money out of the gullible population," Sherlock told him, not bothering to lift his eyes off the body. One corner of his mouth turned down in disgust even as the other twitched upwards in amusement. He certainly wouldn't have expected to have a conversation about angels with DI Lestrade, of all people. Best to nip that in the bud, before he was forced to lie outright.

  
"The killer combed her hair," he said. "He was very careful and precise about it. Probably trying to get something out of it."

  
"So? Is there anything left of whatever it was?"

  
"Not in her hair, no." Sherlock turned his examination to the victim's toes. "But there might be something beneath her toenails."

  
"Her toenails? Can't get much farther from the hair, can you?"

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I told you only minutes ago that she was fully encased in something. Whatever it was got into her hair and had to be removed. It is therefore highly possible it also got beneath her nails. He has cleaned the fingernails, but toes are much more difficult and some people forget to take them into account at all." He opened his tool kit and pulled out a nail file. "Even if he made the effort to clean them properly, there might still be some residue left."

  
It was difficult to reach the toes at all while the body was in this position, which greatly increased their chances of finding something. After a minute of careful manoeuvring, Sherlock exclaimed a triumphant "Uh-hu!"

  
"Got something?"

  
He held up the file, examining the yellowish material on it carefully before leaning in to sniff at it. "You'll need to have it examined in the lab, of course," Sherlock said, depositing the file's contents in a small evidence bag before giving it to Donovan to label, "but I believe it's foam material."

  
"Foam?," Lestrade repeated.

  
"Yes, obviously. The crime was premeditated. He had a foam casing made to the specific measurements of her body, killed her, cleaned up the body as best as he could, and arranged her in her current position in the foam. Once rigor mortis had set in fully and the body was stiff enough to stay in this position on its own, he removed the foam, placed her here and carefully cleaned away any of the foam particles that got caught in her hair or beneath her finger nails. But he couldn't reach her toes properly thanks to her position. He packed up the foam and his other equipment, and left approximately three hours after he had killed her."

  
There were several beats of silence as they stared at Linda Walisham's body.

  
"So what you're saying is we're dealing with a seriously deranged, rather intelligent bastard," Lestrade surmised.

  
"Basically, yes."


	33. Part 7 - Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

St Bart's Hospital looked and smelled the same way it had the last time Sherlock had been there on the day he faked his death. Even working his way through all of Lestrade's cold cases, he had somehow managed to avoid returning to this place, choosing instead to make use of the Yard's own lab and annoying Anderson in the process. If asked, he couldn't even have come up with a proper explanation as to why. He hadn't seen Molly at all since he required her help in cleaning up after his 'suicide' and had not heard from her either in the time since his return. He probably should have sought her out before now.

  
If Lestrade had wondered about his reluctance to enter St. Bart's, he probably chalked it up to bad memories - after all, how much worse could it get than returning to the place where you had committed suicide? Sherlock could hardly tell him that returning to the place where he had actually died was something he had crossed of his agenda ages ago.

  
Yet he felt reluctant about St Bart's, the place where he had last seen John look at him with something other than anger or despair in his eyes. In a way, it was worse than the memory of the ground rushing towards him with nothing to soften his landing. He shuddered and straightened his shoulders, shoving all thoughts of the past aside as he walked through the door and down the familiar hallway towards the lab.

  
Lestrade and Donovan, both visibly glad to be far away from the crime scene in the clinical comfort of a scientific environment, followed him as he pushed open the lab door and strode in as if he owned the place - the same way he had always done.

  
Molly was sitting at the desk, filling out forms. She looked up when he entered, gasped and dropped her pen. It was her usual reaction to his sudden appearance and the familiarity made him smile a little, relieved that this, at least, had not changed. A moment later, he had to reassess that conclusion when she got up, crossed the room and hugged him tight.

  
"I thought you were never coming back," she said, voice trembling. "You were gone for so long."

  
"I was ... delayed," he told her quietly, wrapping one arm around her automatically. He couldn't help it - touching another person felt so good, he couldn't have stopped himself even if he had made an effort to do so. People rarely touched him these days, and if they did, it was either a pat on the shoulder (Mrs Hudson), to ruffle his hair (also Mrs Hudson, that woman had no sense of personal boundaries) or to shove him against walls ( _don't think about him, don't think about him_ ). Lestrade hadn't touched him at all since his initial bear-hug.

  
Before, there had been touches constantly. A hand grabbing his wrist or elbow to get his attention, a hand on his back to remain steady while stretching for something up on one of the higher kitchen shelves, a knee brushing his on the sofa. All these little things he had never paused to pay special attention to and that were now painfully missing. He hadn't realised how much the lack of contact had affected him.

  
When Molly drew back, it was too soon. He didn't show it though, simply lowering his arm and allowing her to step away. "The body arrived only minutes before you did," she told him. "I'm just finishing with the initial forms, then I'll do the autopsy. Want to watch?"

  
Sherlock shook his head. "I need access to the microscope and perhaps the mass spectrometer if the microscope is not sufficient."

  
"The mass spec?," Molly repeated. "I-I'm not sure you can use that, actually, it's very sensitive equipment and-"

  
She made the mistake of glancing up at his face and was met with his best pleading look. Her shoulders dropped. "Fine. Just ... try and use the microscope first. The mass spectrometer is a last option, all right? It's in the chemistry lab on-"

  
"-the second floor, yes, I know," Sherlock said, holding out an imperious hand towards Lestrade, who sighed and surrendered the bag of evidence Sherlock had collected earlier.

  
"Thank you," he muttered, already tugging of his coat and scarf as he walked towards the microscope. "Do let me know if you find anything interesting or out of the ordinary in the autopsy, will you?"

  
"Of course," Molly said. "Good luck with your sample."

  
He sat and tuned them all out, his attention focused solely on his task. There was something about this case that rubbed him the wrong way and he needed to find out what it was, and soon. He had never experienced such an extreme reaction to a crime scene before, not even to that bloodbath that used to be a family home about a year before he had met John. He shoved the memory aside, pretending not to be aware that this was the lab in which they had first met. Ridiculous to even place any importance on that fact.

  
He prepared the slide, adjusted the microscope, and was soon absorbed in his close examination of the trace evidence. Foam, just as he had assumed. Which meant he had been right about the killer's method. Satisfactory, but not very helpful in determining the perpetrator's identity. He frowned, turning the small sample of foam this way and that as he searched for any other particles that might have gotten caught in it. There was nothing. Oh well. Perhaps it would have been a bit too much of a coincidence if the same small sample of foam found beneath the victim's toe nails had also miraculously contained traces of her killer's DNA or other useful information.

  
Sighing, he turned his attention to some of the other evidence piled next to him, wondering when Lestrade had deposited it there. He hadn't noticed his approach or retreat, yet there was no one left in the room but him. A quick glance at the clock told him that the autopsy was likely still ongoing, so he picked up the next bag and exchanged the slides. Might as well go over everything before Anderson and his fellow imbeciles got their hands on it.

  
*****

  
"He doesn't look too good, does he?," Molly asked as she did her preliminary examination of the body.

  
"I'm sorry, who?"

  
"Sherlock, of course."

  
Lestrade nodded. "You noticed?"

  
"I used to look at him a lot before he ... you know. I mean, I don't mean I like stared, or, uh, watched him like a creep or anything," she stammered. "But he seems different now. Tired."

  
"That's what happens when you sleep two nights out of fourteen, if at all," Sally said from her position leaning against the wall, her arms folded in front of her chest. "He's been hanging around the Yard almost 24/7. Solved every cold case we had."

  
"No, I don't mean that." Molly shook her head. "He's never slept much, which you'd know if you'd spent more time around him before all this. I mean he's ... tired of life, I think."

  
Lestrade and Donovan shared a look.

  
Molly glanced at them shyly. "Seeing John again didn't go very well, did it?"

  
"What makes you say that?"

  
She shrugged. "John would be here with him if they were still friends."

  
It was a sad statement, made even sadder by the fact that they both agreed with her.

  
"I'm keeping an eye on him," Lestrade said, sounding determined. "I'm not going to allow a repeat of the roof incident."

  
"Is that what we're calling it now?," Donovan demanded. "The Roof Incident? He faked his death. _Incident_ is a bit of a weak word for that, don't you think? And besides, we still don't know why."

  
"You don't?," Molly asked, looking puzzled. "I thought he'd have explained that by now. To you at last," she added, nodding at Lestrade.

  
"Me? Why me? And how do you know; until today you haven't seen him since he jumped!"

  
Molly drew herself up, jutting her chin out. "Someone had to help him with the clean-up and the documentation. How many people working in morgues and willing to do that for him do you think he knows?"

  
They both stared at her with equal looks of shock and amazement. She deflated a little. "Anyway, since he's come back it's because it's safe for him to do so. He wouldn't want to put anyone in danger."

  
"Danger?," Lestrade echoed. "What danger could ..." He trailed off and groaned. "Not this Moriarty guy."

  
"Who else?," Molly asked. "I don't know what was going on exactly, but apparently there were some threats against you and his landlady and John, of course. He wasn't really coherent when I cleaned him up afterwards and filled out the death certificate, but he said something about snipers. I think he knew Moriarty would threaten you to force him to do something drastic. Otherwise, how could he have found a way to survive the fall?"

  
"Yeah, how did he do that?," Lestrade wondered aloud, reluctant to spend any time thinking about snipers aiming at him. "He never said. Air cushion my arse."

  
Donovan snorted. "And I'll be amazed if he ever does. Freak's never been one for giving us information we might actually like to have, right?"

  
They all sighed the long-suffering sighs of people who had first-hand experience of dealing with an uninformative Sherlock Holmes.

  
"To answer your question," Lestrade said, turning back to Molly, "no, I don't think it went very well. They're not on speaking terms, as far as I know."

  
Molly sighed. "And of course he will pretend to be perfectly fine until he collapses."

  
With a feeling of unease, Lestrade wondered if perhaps her words would prove prophetic. Best to keep an eye on Sherlock until this mess with John was all sorted out. They certainly could not go on like this forever. Sooner or later, something had to give.

  
*****

  
Over the course of the next weeks, nothing about the John Situation (as everyone surrounding the two men now called it) improved at all. If anything, it actually got worse.

  
It started two days following the discovery of Linda Walisham's body, when they found themselves at another crime scene just down the street from the flat John shared with Mary. The victim, a man called Gareth Homeward, was in his early thirties and had been killed and positioned in precisely the same way as Ms Walisham, kneeling at the foot of his bed with his hands clasped and head bowed as if in prayer, scarlet wings drawn onto his back in his own blood, a single knife-wound to the heart.

  
His two flatmates had gone out for drinks right after work and had only discovered the body the next morning, when they got up and realised they hadn't seen their flatmate since the previous morning. As the girl broke down in shock, her friend called first the police and then the nice doctor living just down the street. By the time the police arrived with Sherlock riding along in Lestrade's car for once, John had made sure no one entered the crime scene, had calmed down both distraught people and drawn up a list of things they had touched in the victim's room to help the police sort out fingerprints.

  
He was waiting by the door when they arrived and visibly stiffened at the sight of Sherlock, though he must have realised the consulting detective would be there. Perhaps John had hoped to make his statement to the police and disappear before Sherlock got there. Instead, the two men ended up facing each other by the door, both tense and clearly unsure of how to proceed. Any greeting was delayed by Amy, one of the flatmates, being led past them, sobbing hysterically and constantly stammering "It's not natural". They waited for her and the attending paramedic to be out of earshot.

  
"John," Lestrade said, smoothly stepping between the two. "I didn't expect to see you here."

  
"Marcus called me right after he hung up with the police," John said, folding his arms in front of his chest. "I gave Amy a weak tranquiliser to help calm her down, but there's nothing I could do about their flatmate, so I came out here to wait for you." He shivered slightly. "This place is giving me the creeps, actually. Just seems really wrong, somehow. I mean, murder always does, but not like that. I've never felt like this at any of the other crime scenes we-" He broke off and shook his head, then glared at Sherlock.

  
Sherlock had to swallow twice to make his vocal chords work and when they did, his voice sounded barely recognisable to Lestrade. "John..."

  
John looked good, Lestrade thought. He had lost some weight since the last time he had seen him, but looked healthy and not at all sad. If it wasn't for the cold anger in his eyes, he might actually have appeared to be in a good mood, too. For someone standing at a crime scene, that is.

  
Instead of reacting in any way to being addressed by the man he used to call his best friend, John merely glared at him, then roughly brushed past him and said: "I'll just give my statement to Sergeant Donovan, if you don't mind, Greg."

  
"Uh... yes of course," Lestrade muttered, awkwardly trying to pretend everything was normal even as he felt that something was off about the world itself, as if the sky had suddenly turned green. A small change, but it made everything seem rather unreal and weird.

  
He risked a glance at Sherlock, who had not moved a muscle, his back now firmly to John, and who looked like someone struggling very hard to keep himself under control.

  
Lestrade decided that distraction was the only possible solution. "Come on, Sherlock, let's go have a look at the poor sod. I know you can find who did this, so let's get it over with before this continues."

  
His words didn't seem to register with the detective at all, so he put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle nudge forwards. "Sherlock, the Work."

  
"Hm? Oh, yes, yes of course," Sherlock said, sounding rather strange. "Work. Yes."

  
At last, he started moving, walking into the house and into the flat as if in a trance. He didn't turn back to look at John at all, but Lestrade noticed the tension in his body and concluded he was only preventing himself from doing so by making an effort.

  
When he himself turned back to see how John was acting, he found him staring after Sherlock with a look of betrayal and confusion written all over his face, as if John himself wasn't entirely sure why he kept treating Sherlock as if they had only met once in their lives and not parted on good terms. Lestrade sighed. _'Those two should be locked up together somewhere until they've managed to sort themselves out'_ he thought. Not that it was very likely, of course.

  
He glanced at Donovan, who shrugged behind John's back, and shook his head slightly before turning to follow Sherlock inside. Something would have to be done about this, and soon. But for now, they had a serial killer to catch.

  
He shivered as he stepped over the threshold and into the house. The sense of wrongness, the same he had experienced at Linda Walisham's flat, was evident here as well.

  
"It feels evil," he muttered. "I never thought that's possible, but here we are and it sure as hell is."

  
"Hm?," Sherlock asked, clearly not having been listening at all. "Oh, yes. Perhaps the killer is using some kind of scent we can't consciously detect that causes a sense of unease in people. A flight-instinct, if you want."

  
"I don't feel like running," Lestrade pointed out. "Just ... off, somehow. Like something happened that wasn't supposed to, you know? Perhaps we're in the wrong leg of the trouser of time or something."

  
Sherlock stared at him in confusion before suddenly brightening. "Oh, that's a Pratchett thing, isn't it?"

  
Now it was Lestrade's turn to stare. " _You_ know Terry Pratchett?"

  
"John read some of his books," Sherlock said shortly, visibly closing himself off. He turned his attention to the body at the foot of the bed, making it clear that the conversation was over.

  
*****

 

A week later, the body count had risen to five.

  
Five completely random people who had absolutely nothing in common, murdered in their own homes and arranged like praying angels in what had to be some weird form of mockery. Of whom or what, no one could be sure.

  
"Anything?," Sally asked as she moved to stand beside Lestrade, handing him one of the two take-away cups of coffee she had gotten at Starbucks. He accepted his with a grateful grunt, then returned to observing the Freak, who was sitting at the other side of the room, back ramrod straight and all his attention focused on the samples he was studying under the microscope.

  
"Nothing," Lestrade sighed. "He hasn't moved in over an hour."

  
She snorted. "He hasn't eaten or drunk anything since we started work this morning and you and I both know he spent the entire night here, examining the bodies all over again."

  
Her boss nodded. "He probably hasn't slept either," he muttered, sounding resigned. "Isn't there some sort of rule that people can't go more than ten days and nights without sleep before they go insane?"

  
"How would we know the difference?"

  
"Ha. Good point."

  
They returned to sipping their coffees. Usually, there would be something for them to do, paperwork or chasing down potential leads, talking to eyewitnesses or researching the victims' backgrounds for anything suspicious. Not with this case, though. The Chief Superintendent had put together a larger task force once it became clear they were dealing with a highly dangerous serial killer out on a spree. Lestrade's most recent job description was 'delegating'. He had enough people to delegate everything from filling out requests and files and whatnot, or at least making them signature-ready for him, to trudging through the rain to interview the victims' family and friends.

  
In fact, he was delegating so much of the work that Sally's tasks were reduced to handling incoming calls, making the calls he wanted her to make, and getting coffee for the both of them when she was bored enough to do so.

  
If asked, she even would have gone out to get coffee for the Freak, but he didn't even seem to notice their presence, let alone feel even the slightest inclination towards food or drink. She wondered how long he could go without either. She wondered if it had always been this way and they simply hadn't noticed. But no, John had always been there to needle him into eating and to press a cup of tea into his hands whether he wanted one or not. Perhaps he had forgotten how to feed himself now that John was no longer around.

  
Speaking of John - their recent, tension-strained meeting had clearly left its traces on the consulting detective. Sally would be the first to admit that she didn't much like him, but even she thought John was being a bit harsh. A blind man could see that Holmes was sorry for what he had done to him. And any idiot could see that he was slowly reaching the end of his rope. He never mentioned John's name voluntarily or even alluded to him. He didn't try to reach out or call him. He turned cold as ice the moment someone else dared to mention his former blogger. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he looked so incredibly resigned and hurt it made Sally's chest squeeze uncomfortably.

  
He was quieter in general, too, less prone to insulting people for being stupid. Instead, he would just sigh in resignation and move on, preferring to ignore them rather than to throw their own ignorance back in their faces, as if he no longer saw the point in bothering to make an effort. It was kind of disturbing, actually.

  
She was so lost in her contemplations of Sherlock Holmes' recent change in attitude that she actually jumped when the door to the lab was opened.

  
It was not the quiet, skittish pathologist she would have expected, though. Instead, no one other than John Watson himself walked in. "Greg, could I have a word?"

  
Out of the corner of her eye, Sally saw Sherlock shift at the microscope, his head tilting towards John ever so slightly. Great, so he wouldn't notice her or Lestrade talking to him, but the moment John walked in, he was aware of it. Go figure.

  
"You'll have to make it quick, then," Lestrade said, nodding at him in greeting and making no move to get up from his chair. "I'm not allowed to leave the room."

  
John frowned. "Why not?"

  
"Sherlock's put some sort of chemicals on the soles of my shoes," Lestrade informed him. "The floor outside was cleaned earlier and the chemicals might interfere with the experiment, or something." He shrugged, the look on his face saying 'You know what he's like'.

  
John sighed. Clearly he did know, and the look on his face was closer to resignation than anger.

  
"Fine," he muttered. "I actually wanted to wait a while until making an official announcement, but oh well." He took a deep breath. "Mary and I are getting married. I'd like you to be my best man."

  
Sally couldn't help but gasp quietly, her gaze immediately flickering back to Sherlock, who had visibly flinched and stiffened and now appeared not to be moving a single muscle. She wondered if he was even breathing.

  
"Married?," Lestrade echoed, shocked. "You?"

  
John grinned. "Well, yes. Figured it was about time, you know? We're in a good place, we've been together for a while ... why not? So ... can I count on you?"

  
"And you're sure you want _me_ to be Best Man?," Lestrade asked doubtfully.

  
"Who else would I ask?," John demanded.

  
Sally didn't need to turn her head to know that her boss was rather pointedly looking at Sherlock, who sat with his shoulders hunched as if fending off a blow but didn't move otherwise. She couldn't see his face from this angle and somehow she had a feeling she wouldn't want to anyway.

  
John snorted. "Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen. So?"

  
"Uh ... well, if you insist, I'll be happy to do the honours," Lestrade said, sounding confused but pleased by the request all the same. "And congratulations, by the way."

  
"Yes," Sally muttered. "Congratulations."

  
John beamed at them. "Thanks Greg, I knew I could count on you. Sorry, gotta dash, I'm late for my shift."

  
The moment the door swung shut behind him, Sally and Lestrade both turned to stare at Sherlock. His fingers were clenched around the microscope so tightly they could see the white of his knuckles from across the room. Several seconds passed before, suddenly, he relaxed his grip and rose in one fluid motion, pulling on his scarf and coat and walking towards the door in long strides.

  
"If you will excuse me," he muttered, not quite looking them in the eyes as he passed. "I've got to..." He trailed off, pushing open the door and stepping out into the hallway.

  
"Sherlock, wait!," Lestrade called after him. "You didn't tell me how long I'm supposed to sit here with this stuff on my shoes! Sherlock? Sherlock!"

  
Sally stuck her head through the open door just in time to see the edge of his coat disappearing around the corner. "Sorry, boss. He's gone."

  
She didn't mention the other thing she had seen. Somehow, she doubted Lestrade would believe her.

  
Lestrade cursed. "Fucking hell."

  
"Do you think he'll be all right?"

  
"No," he said shortly. "No, I really bloody don't."

  
He was right.


	34. Part 7 - Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

The world was dark and cold and quiet.

  
He had never put much stock in people's claims that the weather conditions perfectly suited their moods, but in that moment he would heartily agree, if he thought he still had one. A heart, that was.

  
On the other hand, it surely couldn't hurt like this if it was gone. He almosed wished it were.

  
He had no clear memory of how exactly he had left St Bart's Hospital, or how he had gotten to where he was now. Everything following John's declaration was blurry and confusing, a collection of vague snapshots that made little sense and did nothing to explain what had happened to him.

  
When John had walked into the lab, there had been a tiny, wonderful moment where Sherlock had been convinced that John had finally decided to forgive him, or at least talk to him and give him a chance to make amends. Yet all John had done was ask for Lestrade, shattering his hopes within seconds of arousing them. And then ... and then.

  
He pulled his bent knees closer to his chest, hugging his legs with his arms and trying to somehow make himself smaller. Perhaps, if he held on tightly, he would manage to stay intact. It felt as if he were falling apart at the seams, pieces of him disintegrating as whole chunks got torn off and sucked into the black hole that was John's absence.

  
There were no words for the level of agony he felt. Nothing had ever come close to this, not even having his wings torn from his back and that had been the worst pain imaginable. He hadn't known it could get any worse than this. There were many things he hadn't known.

  
Not being around John had been ... bad. Quite terrible, in fact. But Sherlock had borne it, convinced by Mycroft that John's anger would eventually dissipate, regardless of his words.

  
Perhaps he should have expected this to happen. After all, John had moved into a flat with this Mary person the very day of Sherlock's return. Before, Sherlock had never seen John manage to keep a girlfriend for longer than a month, if that. It was quite possible that that was down to his own influence, of course.

  
Even so, he had not been prepared for John's announcement, nevermind his own reaction to it.

  
To imagine John, his John, pledging his love to another in a church, in front of witnesses and God, and to sign a legal document declaring his intention to love none but his wife ... it had been too much. The very idea made his stomach heave, though there was nothing in it for him to retch up. He hadn't eaten anything in well over a week, maybe two. He also hadn't been at Baker Street - and he could no longer call that place home. Everything that made it home was gone, gone and engaged to some random woman. He hated her.

  
Even worse - he envied her.

  
Never in his entire existence had he felt like this before. He wanted to claw his way out of his own skin. He wanted to sink to the very bottom of the sea, where there was nothing for him to see or hear or feel but never-ending darkness. Where no one would ever find him or look at him with such obvious pity as Lestrade and Donovan had done. Did they think he hadn't noticed? Them and Mrs Hudson and Molly and everyone else who had known him _before_.

  
The deafening noise of giant bells filled the air, the sound reverbrating within his chest, making his very bones vibrate. Every gong felt like the beat of a giant heart. Not his, though. His was gone. Shattered. Jagged pieces were all that was left, still stuck in his chest, cutting his soul, making him want to curl up and cease existing just so it would stop.

  
Time passed.

  
He stayed where he was, didn't notice as day turned to night, then day again and once again to night. With sightless eyes he stared at the city he used to love so much, a city that now held nothing but painful memories and the death of all the happiness he had ever felt.

  
For the first time in his entire existence, Sherlock Holmes grieved.

  
*****

 

When they had not seen or heard from Sherlock in three days and Mrs Hudson had actually gone so far as to call Scotland Yard to ask where 'her boy' had gone off to, the Yarders grew increasingly concerned. A short phone conversation between Lestrade and Mycroft's assistant confirmed that Sherlock was not there either, leaving them with nothing less than the entire rest of the world to rule out as a potential hiding place.

  
They consulted Mrs Hudson on possible hiding places and when all she could provide them with was an unlikely 'behind the clock face of Big Ben', Lestrade, who had gotten used to delegating, asked Sally to stop by John's place on her way to work and ask him for potential hideouts. As her route did take her past the area in which he lived, she saw no excuse to get out of the assignment.

  
Muttering to herself, she climbed the steps to his front door that very evening, deciding there was no use in waiting until the next morning. When a woman - doubtlessly his fiancée - answered over the intercom, Sally introduced herself on autopilot. "Sergeant Donovan, Scotland Yard. Do you have a moment?"

  
She was buzzed in immediately and as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she could hear a door being opened above her. A petite woman with short blonde hair peeked out the door. "Did something happen?"

  
"Not as far as I know," Donovan was quick to assure her. "Is John Watson home?"

  
"I'm here," John said, moving to stand beside his fiancée. "What's up, Donovan?"

  
"Do you know any of Holmes' hiding places?," she asked, deciding there was no point in beating around the bush.

  
His face immediately became closed off and he crossed his arms. "Why are you asking? I'm not getting involved in anything he does anymore, as I've told Lestrade before."

  
"Yes, you've made your stance very clear," Sally snapped. "However, I did not ask for your involvement. I asked for information. Sherlock's been missing for these past three days. We're working a high-profile murder-spree."

  
Noticing how angry she sounded, she tried to soften her voice a little. "I'm sure you will agree that it is highly unlike him to disappear in the middle of a case, particularly since he's spent the past two weeks working himself into the ground. I don't think he's slept at all."

  
For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of worry cross his face, quickly followed by annoyance, then confusion and finally anger. "I haven't spoken to him since about a week after he so kindly informed me he was still alive," John said. "I have no idea what he's up to."

  
Sally rolled her eyes. "That's why I'm asking if you know anywhere he might go if he wants to be alone."

  
To his credit, John backed down a little and actually thought about her question. "Well, there's St. Bart's, obviously. Molly sometimes lets him play with the bodies left to science."

  
She shook her head. "We already called her, she hasn't seen him since you came to the lab a couple of days ago."

  
"Have you tried calling his brother?"

  
"I didn't even know he had a brother," Sally said. "Not until Lestrade called his assistant and according to her, he hasn't been in contact with him in weeks."

  
John thought for a while. "He knows every street and alley in London. He might be in an abandoned building, or maybe a drug den. Maybe he's working undercover and hasn't told you."

  
She sighed, deciding to be plain. "No. He left about a minute after you did, and trust me, he was in no state to do any undercover work without being discovered and killed within minutes."

  
He actually flinched at her words, which Sally decided to take as a good sign. "In fact, even I think you've been treating him far worse than he deserves," she said. "And if he ever shows up again, I suggest you do something about it. The two of you used to be inseparable. Don't tell me you've forgotten all of that."

  
She turned around and left, barely taking the time to nod at John's fiancée, who had been listening to the entire exchange in silence.

  
Back in her car, Sally sighed and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the head rest. "Where for heaven's sake have you gone, Freak?"

  
She had barely uttered the pointless question when her eyes flew open in sudden realisation. She pulled out her phone and called Lestrade. "What did you say about that hideout Mrs Hudson mentioned to you?"

  
"The clockface?," Lestrade asked, yawning. Apparently she had caught him on his way to bed. None of them had gotten much sleep recently.

  
"Exactly."

  
"She wasn't talking much sense, mind. It's not exactly open to the public."

  
Sally hung up without a goodbye, turning her car around with a sigh. She really should have realised this a lot sooner. Oh well. Best go and have a look right now.

  
Less than twenty minutes later, she parked her car in front of Parliament, placing the police parking permit on the dashboard to avoid being towed.

  
*****

  
Now that she knew where to look, he was impossible to miss. He did not seem to have heard her approach, but then again she doubted he would have had the chance to do so. The bells tolling eleven pm were loud enough to wake the dead from up here.

  
She took the time to let her eyes adjust to the dim light and studied him quietly.

  
He sat on the old wooden floorboards, completely ignorant of the thick layer of dust on them. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs and his cheek resting on his knees. His head was turned away from her so he could look outside but she didn't need to see his face to know the expression on it. The slight shaking of his shoulders gave him away. Up until this moment, she had not known Sherlock Holmes was capable of crying.

  
Once the deafening noise of the bells had subsided, Sally decided to announce her presence.

  
"I thought you were a demon."

  
Sherlock's head whipped round so quickly she was sure he must have pulled a muscle.

  
For several seconds, he simply stared at her, uncomprehending. She took the time to study the glistening tear tracks on his pale face. He made no move to wipe them away. Perhaps he realised that it was far too late to hide the obvious evidence of his state of mind. Not that there could be any question on the subject. He looked utterly wretched.

  
"How did you get in here?," he croaked.

  
She shrugged and took a couple of steps in his direction, careful not to bang her head on anything.

  
"My father is part of the maintenance team of the mechanics in here. He took me along once, showed me the passages. And you'd be surprised how far a police badge can get you." She paused, thinking about Lestrade's constantly disappearing IDs. "Or maybe you wouldn't."

  
Something a very generous person might call a smile flickered across his lips but was gone immediately. "Maybe."

  
Several seconds passed in silence as she moved to the wall opposite him and sat on the floor. The grand clock-face of the tower loomed above them, looking even more impressive from up close, but also rather unfamiliar when viewed from the back.

  
"So," Sherlock finally said. "A demon. Surely I can't have been that bad at the time. I believe I was helping Lestrade solve a murder when we met."

  
Sally nodded. "You did. But I'd never seen anything like you before. I didn't know what it meant." She shrugged. "You can't blame me for being suspicious."

  
"Ah," he said. "Not a figure of speech then." His iridescent eyes fixed on her face. "You have the Sight." He tilted his head. "Your grandfather?"

  
"Grandmother," she corrected. "I'm the only one in the family who inherited it. It's come in useful at times."

  
He nodded and they were silent again.

  
After a while, Sherlock spoke once more. "You said you 'thought' I was a demon. I assume you don't anymore."

  
"No," she sighed. "You've looked completely human ever since you came back. I thought something happened to make you human again."

  
"Past tense again."

  
He was as observant as always. Sally shrugged. "I saw at the lab the other day. John's announcement must have made you lose control over it for a moment. There's no need to bother hiding now," she added pointedly.

  
He made no verbal reply, but dropped his shields - if indeed that was what it was. She had never found out how it worked or what exactly meant she was able to see that others didn't, but whatever it was - he had stopped blocking her.

  
She gasped. "Wow."

  
This time, when he smiled at her, it stayed on his face for two full seconds.

  
"I don't suppose anyone else knows?," she asked.

  
He shook his head.

  
"Not even John?"

  
"Not even ... him," Sherlock said, looking pained. "Before, there was nothing I could have told him. And now he refuses to be in my company long enough to listen to any explanations. If we could have some privacy, away from prying eyes and ears, I might simply show him and be done with it, but he won't be caught alone with me now."

  
Sally nodded, wondering whether they might be able to cook up a trap for John to fall into before realising that she was basically plotting to set him up with Sherlock Holmes. Good lord, what had become of her life?

  
In an attempt to change the topic, she cast her mind around for any questions she might have. Luckily, there was one. "So, why did I see you the way I did before?"

  
His gaze when he looked at her was steady, unapologetic. "Because I fell."

  
There was no need to go into further detail. She nodded. "Come on. I'll take you home. You've been here for days."

  
He made no protest when she got up and offered him her hand. In return, she didn't comment on his taking the stairs. She didn't consider the results of sleep deprivation combined with a severe lack of nourishment until Sherlock collapsed on the steps.


	35. Part 7 - Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your lovely comments and kudos. Onwards we go!

**Chapter 8**

 

The noise Mrs Hudson made when she emerged from her flat to find Sally half dragging, half carrying Sherlock inside, was rather similar to that of a distressed mother.

  
"Oh, my dear boy! What on earth happened?"

  
"'m fine," Sherlock muttered, not very convincingly. His bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and thin face told their own story far more eloquently than his voice could in that moment.

  
"Sorry to barge in here, Mrs Hudson," Sally apologised. "But it was either come here or allowing me to call his brother." She shrugged. "Guess his choice is obvious."

  
Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue, moving forward to grasp Sherlock's right arm and help him up the stairs. "Oh, you stubborn man. Would it kill you to accept help every now and then when it is offered?"

  
He didn't reply and she clearly didn't expect him to, merely sighing good-naturedly and helping Sally to manoeuvre him onto the sofa. He slumped into the cushions like a puppet with its strings cut and tipped sideways to bury his face in a pillow. One quick glance between the women was enough and they stepped into the kitchen where Mrs Hudson went about loudly preparing tea.

  
"What in all heavens happened to leave him in such a state?," she asked quietly, her kind face worried. "He hasn't gone back to the drugs, has he?"

  
"No," Sally assured her. "At least I don't think so. He doesn't seem high. More like ... low. Very low."

  
The landlady sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't seen much of him since he came back, though I dearly wish he would stay longer. He has been quite desolate and uncommonly quiet. Not a single explosion in all these months! It is not like him at all." She turned to get some teacups and saucers from one of the cupboards, taking the opportunity to glance toward the heap of consulting detective on the sofa. "I believe he misses John rather much."

  
Sally grimaced, but didn't hide her reaction quickly enough.

  
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson said. "This is about John, isn't it? Is everything all right? He isn't hurt, is he? Oh, silly me, Sherlock would not move from his side if he was."

  
"John is perfectly fine," Sally assured her. "He ... uh ... he came to St. Bart's a couple of days ago to announce he was getting married. Sherlock couldn't help but hear the happy news." Her tone made it perfectly clear that no one considered the news to be even close to happy.

  
"Married!," Mrs Hudson gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "John? God gracious!"

  
She turned to look at Sherlock again, the obvious worry and sympathy on her face enough for Sally to realise that the kind woman had most likely seen this coming from day one. Well, maybe not the part where John declared he was going to marry a woman, but certainly the extend of how much the self-proclaimed sociopath cared for him.

  
"Oh, my poor boy."

  
Abandoning the tea to Sally's care, Mrs Hudson hurried back into the sitting room, nudged Sherlock halfway upright and sat on the sofa herself before pulling him back down so his head came to rest in her lap. Wordlessly, he buried his face in her stomach. The absence of any scathing comment was even more disturbing than the way he so obviously sought physical reassurance, and Sally quietly put two steaming cups of tea on the coffee table before giving Mrs Hudson a wave and turning to leave. The last thing she saw before she pulled the door closed behind her, was Mrs Hudson stroking Sherlock's hair and shushing him like a child as he wrapped himself closer around her.

  
Sally waited until she was standing outside on the pavement and breathing the cool night air before shaking her head. "Bizarre. If anyone had told me a year ago that the Freak would come back from the dead and then fall apart over John Watson marrying some woman, I'd have advised them to have their head examined."

  
As it was, she could not help but feel that she had liked their general situation better when Holmes and Watson had been inseparable and she had been free to despise the former as much as she wished.

  
*****

 

Perhaps he should have expected it sooner rather than later, but when John left the clinic once his shift was done, he was actually surprised to find a sleek black car with tinted windows idling at the curb. The driver got out and held the door open for him. John paused, looking up and down the street and trying to calculate his chances of getting away. They weren't good. In fact, they were nonexistent, seeing as Mycroft knew perfectly well where he worked, where he went to the pub, where he lived and probably also how many cups there were in his kitchen cupboard.

  
"Bloody Holmes brothers," he muttered under his breath before straightening up and taking the last couple of steps towards the car. Ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head, he got in and sank onto the soft leather seat. The driver closed the door behind him and got back into the car as well.

  
"Good evening, John," Mycroft said. His voice was calm, yet something about his tone suggested that he was quite capable of ensuring that the evening would not continue to be good as far as John was concerned.

  
"Is it?," he asked warily, rubbing a hand down his face. "Why don't we both enjoy it at opposite ends of the city then?"

  
"Would you like your head to enjoy the evening at the opposite end of the city from the rest of your body?," Mycroft inquired mildly.

  
John didn't reply. He liked to think that he and Mycroft, even if they did not much like one another, had at least gotten along quite well, all told. There had been some minor threats uttered on both sides and some thinly veiled insults to amuse Mycroft's brother, but up until now he had never really thought the British Government would actually make good on his threats.

  
Mycroft smiled coolly. "I'm sure you know why I decided to-"

  
"-abduct me?," John interrupted. "No."

  
"-call on you," Mycroft finished his sentence, raising one eyebrow. "No?"

  
"Well, obviously this is about your brother, somehow," John said, frowning at him. "Sergeant Donovan already came to me yesterday evening, I'm afraid my answer hasn't changed. I wouldn't know where he might be found. If I did, he wouldn't have been able to hide for eighteen months, don't you think?"

  
"Ah, John, not even you could have found him where he went, even if I had told you the way," Mycroft sighed. "But that is beside the point. I know perfectly well where my brother is at the moment. His physical body, that is. I fear his mind is quite beyond my reach."

  
"Have you added mind-reading to your list of abilities, then?," John asked. "I'm surprised you feel the need to talk to me at all then."

  
Mycroft's lips curled. "What makes you think I am not reading your mind at this very moment? I'm not of course. To be perfectly honest with you, I currently doubt your ability to even have thoughts, much less ones worth listening to."

  
John opened his mouth to protest, but the older Holmes brother brushed his sputtered response aside like an annoying fly. "Be that as it may, I actually came to tell you to stay away from my brother - if you are quite finished breaking his heart, of course."

  
"Breaking his heart?" John scoffed. "Mycroft, if your brother has proven one thing quite thoroughly, it is that he has no such thing. And I can assure you I do not intend to spend any time in his company whatsoever."

  
"Interesting."

  
That was not the response John had expected. "Excuse me?"

  
Mycroft tilted his head, considering him through narrowed eyes. "Tell me, John, have you referred to my brother by name at all since he came back?"

  
John gaped at him. "Of course I have used his name. Don't be stupid, Mycroft. It doesn't suit you."

  
"Fine, then," Mycroft said. "Say his name for me. You shouldn't have any trouble with that, seeing as you claim to have used it recently."

  
He opened his mouth to do just that, but the syllables just wouldn't come. "Of course I called ... your brother ... by his name," was all he got out.

  
"That's twice in one sentence," Mycroft observed idly. "Impressive. Want to give it another try?"

  
John glowered at him but did not speak again.

  
"Just as I thought. And do you constantly feel angry about what he has done or only when you are confronted with it by seeing or hearing about him?"

  
"I ... what ... what are you talking about?" John felt decidedly off-guard now. "What are you implying?"

  
Mycroft ignored him. "You don't trust your own feelings, isn't that so? You feel angry, yet at the same time confused as to why that is. Deep down you know that your current behaviour is not right."

  
"Not right?" John narrowed his eyes, feeling his anger rising. " _He killed himself in front of me_ \- or made me believe he did - and left for _eighteen_ bloody months without bothering to tell me he was still alive! You know exactly how I was doing those first couple of months, don't you _dare_ tell me my anger is not justified!"

  
"You seem to work on the assumption that Sherlock did what he did for the sheer fun of it," Mycroft noted. "Do you think he hasn't suffered, being away for so long? He believed he could make it back after half a year at most but was unexpectedly detained. And if you truly think that he did not feel your absence keenly, you are in even deeper trouble than I previously assumed."

  
"Trouble?," John asked, because that was the easiest part of the speech to focus on. "How am I in trouble?" The word didn't seem to fit.

  
The car rolled to a stop and when John turned to look outside, he realised they were standing outside his home.

  
"Because," Mycroft said, "it means that someone has quite seriously altered your thought process where my brother is concerned. Good night, John."

  
*****

 

Sherlock was bent over the array of crime scene pictures spread out on Lestrade's desk, completely ignoring the gazes he could feel boring into his back. His neck was stiff from having spent the entire night on the sofa, curled around Mrs Hudson as he wept, and he tilted his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen the muscles. Neither Donovan nor Lestrade had commented on his appearance at the Yard this morning, though the latter clearly knew where his Sergeant had found Sherlock and in what kind of state he had been at the time. Luckily, both valued their lives too much to ask questions.

  
He sighed, pulling the pictures of the latest victims closer. Distantly, he noted with surprise that he didn't even feel angry with himself or John for distracting him so thoroughly from the case - thoroughly enough to completely miss the appearance of several new bodies. All he felt was a painful pang of emptiness. There was nothing to be done about that, so he decided to focus his attention on the one thing he had a chance of ending - the bizarre and apparently random spree of killings in his beloved city.

  
No matter how long he studied the bodies or pictures of the crime scenes, there was absolutely nothing all victims had in common. He had even gone so far as to consider a chain of interconnected triggers leading from one victim to the next, but had come up equally empty. Whoever was behind this did not seem to have any rhyme or reason to their actions whatsoever.

  
"There is no point to any of this," he said, speaking more to himself than the others. "Why these people, why now? Clearly, whoever did this already has considerable experience in killing and did not need to perfect their method. But if there had ever been a case such as this, I would have heard of it. He or she must have completely altered their style."

  
"She?," Lestrade echoed. "You think this may be the work of a woman?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "It is at least possible. There were no signs of a struggle on any of the victims' bodies, so whoever killed them clearly attacked them when they did not expect it. There was no need for a fight, physical strength was therefore not a requirement. And I dare you to suggest that Sergeant Donovan here couldn't kill a grown man and then arrange his body in any way she pleases."

  
Lestrade glanced at his Sergeant rather warily, then snorted at her smug expression. "All right, I'll grant you that one."

  
"All that means is that we can't even focus our investigation on only one half of the population," Sally pointed out, gesturing at the pinboard that held all the case information. "We are not a single step closer to determining either the killer or his or her reason for killing these particular people. Everyone we spoke to about the victims described them as friendly, likeable people. Friends, family members, neighbours." She ticked them off on her fingers. "They were all distraught and all were quite shocked that anyone would harm their loved one."

  
"Yes, everyone's always eager to praise the newly dead over the green clover," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "But generally friendly people do not inspire murderous thoughts, so we are still left looking for a motive..."

  
He trailed off, looking deep in thought.

  
Suddenly, he whirled around. "At the second crime scene," he said, grabbing the corresponding picture of Gareth Homeward from Lestrade's desk and holding it up, "what was it his flatmate kept saying?"

  
"I ... what?," Lestrade asked. "How should I know?"

  
"The paramedic was leading her right past you when we arrived, just before you greeted John," Sherlock said impatiently, his voice catching on his former friend's name. "She kept repeating 'It's not natural' over and over."

  
"Fine, so she said that. So what?," Sally asked. "What's the point?"

  
"The point," Sherlock said, "is that I need to read the statements you took of all the friends and families of each victim. Where are they?"

  
"At the back of each victim's file," Lestrade said, sharing a confused glance with Donovan. "Why?"

  
Sherlock grabbed the files and sank unceremoniously to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the carpet as his eyes flitted across the first page. "I think I've found our connection."

  
Just then, Sherlock's mobile rang and he absentmindedly reached into his pocket and answered without looking at the screen. "Yes?"

  
"Your brother abducted me last night. Care to explain that?"

  
Sherlock almost dropped the phone. "John!"

  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade and Donovan whirl around to stare at him in surprise. He lowered his head and tried to focus on the report in front of him. The words were blurring in front of his eyes. "I apologise. After our ... conversation ... I informed him that he was to keep his distance. I thought he would do so, if only to avoid another argument with me."

  
John snorted. "Yeah right. Mycroft does as he pleases, I'm well aware of that. What I would like to know is why he thought he could insinuate that my mind had somehow been addled."

  
Sherlock blinked. "I beg you pardon?"

  
"He seems to believe I'm not thinking straight," John said angrily. "Said something about someone having tampered with my thought processes or some shit like that."

  
"Did he offer any arguments to support this theory of his?," Sherlock asked, privately amazed by the realisation that this was the calmest conversation he and John had had since his return.

  
"None that made any sense whatsoever," John growled. "Something about me not saying your name and that me being furious with you is unjustified. He also threatened to have my head removed from my body."

  
"He'd only do that if he wished me to repeat the process on himself," Sherlock told him without thinking about his words at all. He was too busy going back over their recent conversations, few and far between as they were, to try and recall if John had ever called him by his name in them. He couldn't come up with a single instance, but that might just be because John no longer considered him worthy of his attention. Not calling each other by name certainly increased emotional distances, no matter what the situation.

  
As there was no way he could possibly follow his brother's bizarre thought process on this subject in his usual objective manner, Sherlock sighed and decided it was time to take a step he had spent the past three days of his self-enforced exile contemplating.

  
"I can only apologise again for his behaviour," he found himself saying. "I'm afraid my brother loses some of his usual objective judgement when it comes to anything concerning myself. I will call him and make sure he leaves you alone from now on. And ..." He hesitated, then took another deep breath. "I meant to tell you ... if you ... if you truly do not wish to ... to ever repair our friendship or have me in your life at all, then all you have to do is tell me so and ... I will delete every memory I have of you from my mind." It physically pained him to force the words out, but he had no choice but to continue. "You could walk past me on the street and it would be as if we had never met at all."

  
The only reply that greeted this statement was silence and Sherlock promptly lost his nerve. "I won't ask for an answer immediately, I realise it is quite a big step. If you have not contacted me by Sunday next week, I will know your answer and ... proceed."

  
He hung up, slowly lowering his phone and closing his eyes as he fought to keep his composure. Nine days. Nine days of anxious fear as he waited for John to make a decision. He was not sure if he could bear another rejection.


	36. Part 8 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your incredible response to the previous chapter. Let's see what John thinks about all this, shall we?

**Part VIII**

 

  
_"You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down."_  
_\- Ray Bradbury_

  
**Chapter 1**

 

Speechless, John stared down at the phone in his hand. He had called the bastard to rage against Mycroft and had been given an apparently sincere apology and an ultimatum instead. This was not what he had expected to happen at all.

  
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, shaking his head. The nerve of the man! To think that John would still want to see him, to forgive him! He couldn't imagine anything he felt less inclined to do.

  
Yet there was something about what his former friend had said that didn't quite sit right with him. Perhaps it was the tone of voice - not haughty or demanding, as John would have imagined, had he bothered to do so, but defeated and almost broken instead. He wondered if what the detective had said was even possible. Could someone actually delete their memories? He had seen him do it often enough, of course, but usually that was only facts and names and irrelevant details, such as the name of the current Prime Minister. But was it possible to actually delete an entire person and every memory connected to them? Then again, if anyone could do it, it would be _him_. If so, John would quite like to know how it was done.

  
He balled his hands into fists, feeling another surge of anger rising. Was this what it was going to be like then? The bastard was going to delete every memory of John, forgot they had ever even met, and leave John to deal with all his anger and betrayal and pain without an outlet?

  
"And once again I'll be the one left to deal with the mess while he leaves," he growled.

  
Even now, his mind shied away from the idea. Leaving. It just wasn't fathomable. The very idea that _he_ could leave him here, again, and this time forget about him entirely, was too much to even consider.

  
_'It would be as if we had never met.'_ The words kept repeating in his mind, an unstoppable loop.

  
Of course the bastard would actually do it. Leave him behind again, disappear into the night and never return. He had gone through that before and wasn't willing to put up with it again. If anyone was allowed to walk away, surely it was John himself.

  
Even as he thought it, John realised that this line of thought didn't make much sense. The point was that ... his presumed death had been unbearable. If it weren't for Lestrade, John was certain he would have put a bullet through his skull before long. Instead, he had scrambled to put the pieces of his life back together, such as they were. It had taken months to regain some sort of balance and emotional stability. And just when he had thought he was doing fine, everything had been turned upside down by the consulting detective's sudden return.

  
John blinked. Consulting detective? He never called ... him ... that in his mind. It was always his name, always ... _Oh_.

  
_'Tell me, John, have you referred to my brother by name at all since he came back?'_

  
_Oh._

  
He had thought Mycroft was being his usual annoying self, but now that he thought about it ... he was right. He had thought Mycroft only alluded to saying his name out loud, but clearly he had realised what it had taken John so long to notice - that he hadn't even thought of his name once. Not since that first meeting in 221b, when he had been far too shocked to register much of anything.

  
What was it Mycroft had said? That someone was addling his mind? But how? Had he been hypnotised? Was that even possible? And why? Who would benefit from such a ridiculous little thing?

  
It made no sense at all.

  
Coming to a decision, John reached for pen and paper. If he couldn't say it or consciously think it, surely he could at least write it down and make himself read it.

  
He set the tip of the pen to the paper and watched as the ink bled across the white expanse. Carefully, he wrote an S. Then an H.

  
S-H-I

  
... no, that wasn't right.

  
S-H-O

  
He frowned, his inherit stubbornness coming to life as his hand refused to cooperate.

  
S-H-E

  
There, that was better. Now on to the next letter.

  
S-H-E-A

  
John growled.

  
Fifteen minutes later, he had managed to write a dozen words starting with SHE, not one of them coming even close to his former best friend's name.

  
Whatever the hell was going on, he couldn't help but think that perhaps Mycroft had been telling the truth. Which left him with nine days to figure out what was happening to him before he lost all ability to communicate with She- with _him_. Before the other man deleted him from his mind palace.

  
*****

 

Lestrade and Donovan could do nothing but stand there and stare as Sherlock tore through the case files, pulling out statements and muttering to himself, cursing every now and then before throwing a sheet to the side and reaching for the next one without caring about the mess he made.

  
A pattern was emerging and he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. None of this was right and every part of his mind rebelled against the theory he was forming, but the facts spoke for themselves. It was no wonder he had missed them for so long - it never would have occurred to him on his own. If John had been there, he probably would have made note of the connection long before. But John wasn't there and right now he couldn't afford to think about him or the ultimatum he had just given him. If this was what he thought it was, the case demanded all of his attention.

  
"Nice," he muttered, perusing another statement. "The loveliest person ... couldn't harm a fly ... always so kind ... such a good friend ... very caring ..." He reached for the next file, hoping against hope that the statements in this one would be any different.

  
They weren't.

  
No matter who the police had spoken to - family, friends, neighbours, co-workers - every single one of the victims had been described as a fundamentally good person, kind and friendly to everyone, caring and non-violent, leading a quiet and peaceful life. Not one of them had ever gotten so much as speeding ticket or been involved in any other police matter. To make the connection even more obvious now that he was actively looking for it, they had all been involved in charity work of some kind or another. Not in the same charity, but all of them had been about giving medical and financial aid, curing diseases or providing food and shelter.

  
Finally, the last file slipped from his fingers and he stood frozen, staring sightlessly at the mess on Lestrade's desk and floor. Suddenly, he felt very, very cold and very, very sick.

  
"I have to make a phone call," he muttered, moving to leave the room. His legs moved jerkily, barely responding to his brain's commands.

  
"Sherlock!," Lestrade said, exasperated. "What the hell is going on?"

  
"I'll tell you in a moment," he said absently. "I just need to call my brother first. Excuse me."

  
He went and locked himself in a seldom used supply closet at the end of the hall, pulling out his phone without bothering to switch on the light inside the cupboard. He hit speed dial and barely waited for his brother to answer before blurting out his horrifying deduction.

  
"Someone is killing Nephilim."

  
*****

 

Mycroft slowly put the phone receiver down and stared into the middle distance for a minute or two before shaking himself out of his stupor. At his age, he tended to forget how important even minutes could be to the mortal world. There was no time to be lost. He reached out to press a button that would call his assistant into his office, but she opened the door and walked in before he could do so. Efficient as always. He should consider raising her salary again.

  
"Ah, Anthea, I was just about to call you."

  
"Sir," she said, managing to make it sound like both a greeting and a question.

  
"Do get one of our technicians to have a look at the Yard's files on a recent murder spree and organise copies of all the files. Discreetly, if you please. I do not want anyone to know that I am taking an interest."

  
"You will have them on your computer in a matter of minutes, sir."

  
"Physical copies only, if you please, and make sure all electronic copies on our servers are deleted without a trace."

  
"Of course sir."

  
She exited the room and left him to his thoughts.

  
For the first time in many decades, possibly centuries, Mycroft felt real anger not directed at someone trying to harm his brother. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be this mind-numbingly furious. Though perhaps "mind-numbing" was the wrong word to describe his condition. In fact, his mind was in overdrive as he tried to sift through his memories, looking for previous instances of such an atrocity being committed.

  
Unsurprisingly, he came up empty in his initial search, but there were quite a lot of years and memories to sift through. He set part of his mind to the task while focusing the rest of his thoughts on a possible motive.

  
Someone was killing Nephilim.

  
The very combination of these words seemed preposterous. It was _simply not done_. A random person might as well be drowning babies in a bathtub and the horror of such an act would still not compare to that of killing a Nephil. And someone had not murdered one but half a dozen of them. It was a nightmare, pure and simple. He couldn't even imagine doing such a thing. And, considering some of the things he had done or seen done over the course of his existence, that was saying quite a lot.

  
Nephilim, the offspring of angels and humans, were rare but not so rare as to be completely unheard of, and a city as big as London would easily attract one or two dozen of them. But for someone to kill them ... Nephilim were protected from such things by their very nature. Good and kind and amiable in general, they were quite incapable of making enemies. He had never heard of a Nephil hurting someone or being hurt by someone else. Even humans could not imagine to lift a hand against them. Even humans felt that these people, whose true nature they could not comprehend, were somehow sacred.

  
His musings were interrupted by Anthea's return. She was carrying a thick folder that no doubt contained every report, statement, photograph and random note connected to the case.

  
"Is there anything else, sir?," his assistant asked once she had handed him the file.

  
"No, that will be all. Thank you, Anthea."

  
He was not at all surprised when she returned several minutes later with a tray of tea and a sandwich.

  
"Oh, have I neglected to eat again?"

  
"Yes, sir." She never failed to make sure he ate enough to pass for a regular human, even if he sat in meetings from early morning to the middle of the night. As an assistant, she was truly invaluable.

  
"Thank you, my dear. Feel free to return to your other duties now. And keep an eye on the investigation for me. I want to be informed of any new developments immediately."

  
"Of course sir."

  
When she left this time, the door stayed closed and he mechanically ate the sandwich she had prepared for him before turning his attention back to the files in front of him.

  
True to form, Anthea had organised everything chronologically, and he found himself amazed at her efficiency once again. How had she done it all in so little time? Sometimes he suspected his assistant of having a kind of magic of her own.

  
He started with the first crime scene, breathing in sharply at the sight of the photographs. How had this slipped beneath his notice? His fingers traced the bloody wings drawn onto the young woman's back. His hand shook.

  
Averting his gaze, Mycroft leaved through the rest of the file, noticing with relief that Sherlock had been on the case from the very first murder and had no doubt made sure the investigation was thorough. He read the report on the suspected method of arranging the body with interest.

  
Considering the clean state of the crime scenes and the - apart from the stab wound - immaculate condition of the bodies, foam would have been his first guess as well. He was quite glad to see that his brother's thought process went along the same lines as his own in the matter.

  
Sighing, Mycroft turned his attention away from already solved mysteries and continued reading the file. Each crime scene picture seemed more terrible than the one before, though nothing changed except for the victims and the general layout of their bedrooms. Every part of his being was appalled at the very idea. There was nothing that could ever induce him to raise a hand against a Nephil. To see evidence of someone having killed so many of them made him almost physically sick - another thing that had not happened to him in a very long time.

  
He changed trains of thought, doing a quick check on the progress of his mind's search through his memories. Nothing so far. He did not expect that result to change.

  
Finally, he reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory. "Yes, this is Mycroft. I have a special request to make. Entirely off the record, of course. I was wondering if you could have a look through your archives..."

  
*****

  
"He is fighting it now."

  
"So I noticed. I wonder who he met in that car that came to pick him up. He did not seem pleased."

  
"Yet whoever it was clearly had some influence over his thought process. How come we did not get a good look at his or her face?"

  
A sigh. "The tinted windows, as always, and there was no one else around. We would have been noticed within a fifty feet perimeter around the car."

  
"We cannot be sure that it was that person or persons who caused his change in attitude."

  
"Yet it seems reasonable."

  
"Nothing about any of this is reasonable, if looked at in the right way."

  
"You mean the wrong way. I am sure ours is right and seems perfectly reasonable to me."

  
"Don't be a simpleton."

  
The outraged huff went ignored. "Now, how long do you think we can draw it out?"

  
"Not much longer. He will soon find a way to shrug it off entirely."

  
"I do not like this. A premature loss of control means he will return to his partner sooner rather than later."

  
"Never used to be an option, but I cannot see that happening now."

  
"There may yet be something we can do. Would it be possible to increase our influence?"

  
A shake of the head. "It would be noticed immediately. This subtle approach is the only option that was available to us. We shall have to find another way."

  
"How about advancing the plan? If we create a diversion for that blasted Hell Hound, we might be able to have it all done by the end of the week."

  
"I would not go quite that far. It is a lot to set up and time moves quickly. Yet your idea is not without merit. I shall consider the possibilities."

  
"Stop trying to sound like you're the leader here. We have all done our fair share."

  
"Indeed we have. And if we want to reap what we sowed, I suggest you leave me alone so I can think."

  
Several minutes passed in silence.

  
"I believe there may be an option we have not yet considered."

  
"There is?"

  
"A demon."

  
"Certainly a demon would attract more notice than we want him to."

  
"I was thinking of a lower one, a specimen that hasn't been in Hell for long and will be eager to get out."

  
"An escaped lower demon would certainly attract the attention of the Hell Hounds. Do you think it would also lure this one away?"

  
"Proximity. We shall open a gate in England, that should be sufficient to draw the Hound's attention. We only need a short window of time where he is not guarding his master."

  
"And if everything goes according to plan...?"

  
"We won't have to suffer the indignity of this nobody preceding us and nullifying all our efforts. All we need is to be prepared to act and determine the precise window of time to make sure everything is ready."

  
"He will be a loose cannon, of course. So will Holmes."

  
A sneer. "Holmes is less than useless. I confess, I have not been able to figure out how precisely he survived, but I do believe there was human trickery involved. I had a look at him this morning while he was on his way to the Yard and he looks just as he has always done. Without his wings, he cannot be a threat to us. And even if by some miracle he could regain them, he is still beneath us and holds no power that could cause us trouble."

  
"I concur. He is helpless as a small bird that fell out of its nest. Yet we should not underestimate his potential to cause us unnecessary trouble. Sentiment might lead him to act hastily."

  
"It might, if he knew of our plans. But I do not think he has any idea of our presence here, let alone our intentions for his friend. Even Sherlock Holmes cannot stop something without knowing it is happening."

  
Nods and murmurs of agreement all around.

  
"We shall meet here again tomorrow and discuss how best to set our trap. Do try to come up with something good."


	37. Part 8 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

  
At any other time, Sherlock would have been overjoyed at having a complex, interesting, horrifying serial killer case to occupy his mind with. Instead, he was growing increasingly frustrated. That, and angry.

  
He and his brother rarely agreed on anything, but they were of the same mind on this occasion. To kill a Nephil was unthinkable, an unforgiveable sin. To kill several, and to quite obviously target them on purpose, was so incredibly unfathomable it wouldn't even have occurred to him that someone might try it, if Donovan hadn't basically pushed his nose into the facts. His mind still shied away from even thinking about how such an act could be accomplished, a fact that did not help him solve this case in the slightest.

  
How was he supposed to figure out the motive of these killings when obviously there wasn't one? There simply was no reason to murder Nephilim, just as no Nephil was ever killed. The two things cancelled each other out, simple as that. Water could not keep air from rising towards the surface in much the same way that no one should be capable of committing such a heinous crime.

  
No one ... except ...

  
Sherlock shuddered.

  
Yet another unthinkable option.

  
He had asked around, of course, had made some calls. No demons had escaped from Hell and none of the ones still roaming the Earth had the strength necessary to do physical harm. They also weren't intelligent enough to figure out how to get out of a damp paper bag, never mind committing a series of killings of such complexity.

  
Since humans had no way of distinguishing a Nephil from anyone else, that left only one viable possibility, just as unthinkable as the murders themselves.

  
In his desire to escape thinking about the case, he sat in a corner of Lestrade's office, his legs crossed and feet tucked underneath him in a position he could hold for hours on end, and entered his Mind Palace.

  
Perhaps somewhere in here he would find the answers he was looking for, a different solution than the one he had come up with so far. Perhaps, in the depths of his memory, there would be information to lead him down another path, one he had not yet considered.

  
He closed his eyes to Lestrade's office and opened them in the enormous entrance hall of his Mind Palace. Doors led in every direction, some out onto the grounds surrounding the Palace itself, others opening to long corridors that held more doors and rooms. Several staircases led to upper levels of the building, towards more hallways and into a maze of rooms and passages.

  
His feet carried him along a well-known route, right into the very heart of his own mind, the centre around which everything else had been built and which had stood empty for so long. Crazy, how even his subconscious had known the truth long before he himself figured it out.

  
He paused at the huge double door, as he always did, running both his palms over the intricate patterns carved into the wood. The name engraved there was not one any human could have deciphered, but to Sherlock it sang and glowed and pulsed with life. He traced the letters with his right index finger, swirls and loops on impossibly smooth wood.

  
Finally, with a sigh, he turned away from the door and found one of the many supply closets he kept for reconstruction work. There was always something that had to be changed or re-arranged in his mind, new rooms to be opened, old ones to be closed, others to be torn down entirely. He had never thought he would ever have to include this door in the latter group.

  
Yet what choice did he have? He had given his ultimatum and he had to stick to it, as much for his own sake as for John's.

  
He had made a promise and he was prepared to keep it. He would have to be prepared. The clock he had set up over the door told him there were five days left for John to make a decision. Once that time was up and John had not contacted him, Sherlock would do what needed to be done.

  
He gathered his supplies in silence, for once not allowing any music to be played in his palace. Another day, perhaps. Or maybe never again.

  
If only there was a way to show this place to John, to let him walk these halls and see that absolutely everything concerning him was held safely in the very heart of his Mind Palace, the one place that had existed long before John had even been born.

  
Sherlock still had no idea how exactly it worked. All he knew was that this room with this name had been there, deep inside his mind, for as long as he could remember. In the beginning, the door had been locked, but the meaning of the name had been explained to him and he had built his palace around it, had quite literally wrapped his mind around the most important piece of knowledge he had.

  
Every now and then, he had gone and tried to open the door, only to find himself unable to do so. Time passed and he met people and lost people and met more people and lost them all over again and still the door stayed closed, a part of his own mind locked off from the rest. It had taken him centuries to figure out that the space inside was waiting, just as he was. Always waiting, searching, hoping.

  
How incredible, then, that he had not noticed when things began accumulating inside. He hadn't noticed how copies of his memories ended up behind doors that stayed locked to him. Doors that he had grown too weary to try and open. The fear of finding them still closed to him had been enough to hold him at bay, touching, longing, but never actually daring to press down the handle and cross the threshold.

  
Perhaps, he thought, he had been missing the key.

  
It was there now, of course, plain as day, gleaming like golden hair in the desert sun.

  
Even now, Sherlock still thought it slightly ridiculous that he had been presented with the one thing he had always been searching for just as he was forced to throw it all away.

  
Ridiculous. Mocking. Painful.

  
Once, he had believed he had a chance. That maybe, if he was patient and constant and proved his worth, he would regain what he had given up by his own choice.

  
There was space behind these doors, he knew. Lots of space. Space he had meant to fill. Space he _was_ meant to fill.

  
And now, in a moment of utter despair, he had pledged to never so much as set foot inside this space again, unless John told him to.

  
Sherlock was neither so naive nor so optimistic as to believe he had any chance of that happening. John would not call. John would not come to see him. John would not tell him that he was forgiven and that there was no need for drastic measures.

  
In all likelihood, John would doubt he was capable of what he had promised to do. Even worse, he probably didn't even care.

  
And of course Sherlock would never tell him. He'd rather stay on the outskirts of John's life, unseen and unacknowledged, than do what he had promised to do. But it was not his choice to make. And if John did not tell him otherwise, he would lock this room and hide the key and then brick up the door for good measure.

  
With a heavy heart, Sherlock set out bricks and mortar right beside the door.

  
Five days left.

  
Five days until he closed off his heart and walked away.

  
*****

  
A sound at the very edge of his hearing made him raise his head from its resting place between his paws.

  
He knew that sound, he had heard it before. A distant alarm, just within his area of responsibility. Confused, he got up, started pacing the man-cave, trying to find the direction the sound had come from. He could still hear it, ever so distantly. Perking his ears, he prowled every corner of the cave. The Master was in the food area, eating. One careful glance in his direction told him that everything was fine. He entered the sleeping area of the cave, tried to see if the sound had come from there.

  
In the end, he found it in the wet, humid cave with the strange waterfall. Not inside, precisely, but certainly this was the direction the sound had come from. Outside the hole in the wall, somewhere far away. He tilted his head and listened. The noise was louder here, a distinct ringing.

  
The sense of wrongness increased. It felt like static in his fur, everything about it suggesting that something bad had happened.

  
Then - a howl.

  
Loud, demanding, far away.

  
One of his brothers calling for help.

  
The Hound twitched. Uneasiness made him pace the small humid space. His anxiety coloured the air, vivid orange and a sickly tinge of purple. He hated the smell of it.

  
Worried, he returned to the Master. If there was danger, he needed to stay close to him, needed to keep him safe. The Master had top priority, his instructions on that had been clear. He sat next to him, put his head on the Master's thigh. Maybe this time the Master would notice him. Maybe this time he would be felt and seen and petted and told he was a _Good Boy_. Some part of him wanted that, though he did not quite know why.

  
The Master would know for sure.

  
The Master had finished eating and was talking to a small device he held to his ear. The Hound had seen him do that before. It seemed to be some sort of communication device, like howling. Last time, he had wagged his tail as he identified the voice on the other end - the Master's mate! They had not seen him very often and the Master had always been so very angry with him. The Hound didn't understand. Didn't the Master know that his mate had done it all for him? Didn't he know that he was just trying to protect him? How could the Master be so oblivious when the truth was so obvious, written in the air in coloured scents?

  
It occurred to the Hound that humans had terrible senses. They didn't seem to hear very well and while their eyesight might be fine, their noses didn't seem to work at all. Perhaps the Master couldn't smell what he could. Perhaps the Master simply couldn't smell _it_. It seemed incredible, how someone could not be aware of the obvious sentiments clouding the air whenever the Master and his mate were in the same room. To the Hound, the truth was obvious and it was the reason he didn't like the she-human the Master had chosen as a substitute mate. She smelled all wrong and she wasn't what the Master needed. She wasn't where he belonged. Neither was this man-cave.

  
The Hound sighed unhappily and settled in to listen to the Master's current conversation with his she-human mate. He never smelled angry when he talked to the she-human. He never smelled happy, either. Not the way he had when they had gone home to their own man-cave and found the Master's mate there, waiting for them. His Master's mate's joy had been a thick cloud in the air, exhilaration so strong the Hound had barely been able to smell anything else over the bright yellow.

  
He had been very confused to find all the yellow streaked with red fury the next day, a sickly combination that smelled all wrong and that had been clinging to the Master ever since.

  
Finally, the Master's mate ended the conversation and the Master lowered the device. He looked put out. Maybe because the she-human on the other end had said something about working longer, which the Hound had learned meant she would not be there for some time. He liked that.

  
Another howl cut through the peace and quiet of the flat and the Hound raised his head, the fur at the back of his neck standing to attention.

  
His brothers were calling for help and this time their message was clear. A demon had escaped. A demon, free to roam Earth. It was not supposed to happen, but sometimes it did. Sometimes, they slipped free. The Hounds always dragged them back. That was their job, after all.

  
The Hound knew it was his job, too. Demons took precedence over everything. Even the Master. The sooner the demon was caught, the sooner the Master would be safe.

  
The Hound nudged the Master's leg affectionately, trying to reassure him. He would be back to watch over him soon. Demons never stayed out for long, his brothers were already hot on this one's heels. But they needed his help, needed the advantage of numbers.

  
Reluctantly, the Hound turned and ran from the man-cave, towards the territory where he himself had emerged from Below.

  
He threw his head back and howled an answer, telling his brothers he was coming to their aid. Behind him, the Master's new man-cave vanished in the twists and swirls of the man-pack's giant cave system.

  
*****

 

Mycroft Holmes was pouring over a big pile of files and he did not like what he was reading at all.

  
A quick phone call to an old acquaintance to ask for his assistance had resulted in a return call two hours later. After a short conversation, they had remotely connected their computers and Mycroft had printed out almost a hundred pages of information and research. There were many references to historic events, some of them even before his own lifetime, and reading through the entire stack took several hours of the day.

  
Once he was done with that, he contacted several other friends and colleagues with some questions that demanded answering.

  
It was early evening when the door to his office opened and his assistant slipped in with a small sealed note in her hand. Mycroft frowned. Only the most sensitive information was handled in such a way.

  
"Thank you, my dear." He broke the seal and unfolded the note, looking down at his assistant's neat handwriting.

  
_'The Hound has left his post.'_

  
He lowered the note and looked up at her calm face. "When?"

  
"Just over five minutes ago, sir. It seems a demon has managed to escape Hell and is being pursued right now."

  
"Did he indeed?," Mycroft murmured. "How peculiar that such a thing should happen right now."

  
"Sir? What would you like us to do?"

  
"Keep an eye on John Watson, but very discreetly. He is welcome to go wherever he pleases, but do make sure he is quite safe. My brother would never forgive any of us if anything were to happen to John."

  
"Of course, sir."

  
He sighed and turned his attention back to the information he had absorbed that afternoon. All the puzzle pieces were there and he spent some time arranging and rearranging them, exploring the implications and repercussions of the pictures that formed in the process. Something told him that all of this was very closely connected in ways that were not yet apparent. As it happened, there were quite a lot of arrows pointing in John's direction. He wondered how much of this Sherlock was aware of. Hopefully everything.

  
In a rare moment of indulgence, Mycroft stood and walked around his desk into the middle of his office where he proceeded to thoroughly stretch his wings and flap them once or twice rather lazily. The motion was incredibly relaxing and he felt better immediately. There was a certain reassurance coming from the sensation of the familiar weight on his back, the rush of air through feathers that currently existed in multiple dimensions at once. Sometimes, he tried to imagine what it must be like to have this taken away, to live in constant agony the way his brother had been punished to suffer.

  
Mycroft bared his teeth at the thought. And yet ... why was he thinking of this now? Even as the question occurred to him, he already found the answer. Of course. There had been a familiar name in one of the reports he had read. A name he closely associated with his brother. Neatly folding his wings and removing them from any dimension humans could perceive, he returned to his chair and started leafing through the files in search of that one specific name. If this was the same person in both instances, then their motive was as good as written into the sky and Mycroft shuddered to think what such a thing would mean for Sherlock and John Watson.

  
Millennia had honed his senses. Mycroft Holmes knew a trap when he saw one. He only hoped his brother did, too.


	38. Part 8 - Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

He should have guessed he would not get a calm and quiet evening to spend with his lovely wife-to-be.

  
John sighed and rubbed his eyes, staring down at the phone in his hands. A co-worker had unexpectedly gotten sick and by some annoying twist of fate Mary was the only one available to cover his shift. Of course she had agreed to it. John didn't blame her - he would have done the very same thing, after all. And it was not her fault that she had not had the chance to call him earlier. It had been kind of a last-minute thing, there was no way she could have known in advance.

  
He turned his head and looked at the fridge where the bottle of wine would have to wait for another day. It was probably a good thing he had not yet started cooking for her, opting instead for some toast for himself first to settle his stomach. He had felt decidedly odd, unsettled for no discernable reason, so he had decided to provide his body with some fuel to help fight off what might be the beginnings of something nasty. At one point during his meal, he had thought he felt an odd pressure on his leg, but there was nothing there, of course. Still, it had reminded him of evenings at his grandmother's house many years ago, when her old dog would put his head on his lap at dinnertime to beg for some morsels of food.

  
Shaking the odd memory off, John turned his attention back to his unexpectedly free evening. His plans had gone down the drain and on any other night, that would have been fine. But not tonight. Tonight, John very much wanted something to occupy his mind with. Something that wasn't a certain consulting detective's voice telling him he would erase every memory of him, unless he told him not to.

  
John shuddered. He could almost feel himself standing on a precipice, only one small step separating him from the other side of the edge. And he didn't know what awaited him there. A normal life?

  
What would happen if he decided not to make contact? If he simply pretended the ultimatum had never been made, would it pass unnoticed? Would his life go on the same way it had up to now, endless days and nights spent either working at the clinic or being with Mary in the quiet comfort of their home?

  
It was tempting, in a way, but also frightening. He knew he would itch for something else, something to get his blood up and adrenalin rushing through his body.

  
Of course, there would be nothing to stop him from simply meeting ... him ... again. Starting anew. Yet he did not know if he could. To face a man he had once considered his best friend, and have him stare at him blankly, with no signs of recognition on his face ... it seemed incomprehensible. He simply couldn't imagine that it was possible to intentionally, methodically inflict amnesia on one certain field of one's own memories. Or did _he_ actually plan to erase everything that had happened between their first meeting and now? Would it leave him altered, subtle changes in his behaviour lost along with his memories?

  
Once upon a time, John had thought himself the cause of some of his friend's gentler acts, a contributing factor to his improved behaviour. Now, he wasn't so sure. But still... hadn't he sounded broken on the phone? There had been a definite hitch in that deep voice, a rasp that didn't fit and hinted at strongly suppressed emotions.

  
Which, of course, was impossible. If the bastard had proven anything beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was his utter lack of sentiment where John had always believed it to exist, hidden away from the world.

  
_'He looked happy when he saw you'_ , a voice in the back of his mind supplied and John froze, casting his mind back to the day he had learned his supposedly dead best friend was alive and well. Looking back and ignoring the storm of fury and hurt and betrayal raging within him, he could clearly recall the look on the other man's face. There had been joy there. Thinly concealed nerviness and obvious joy at the sight of him after so long. He had been staring at John as if he might disappear if he averted his gaze for even a moment.

  
Thinking about it now, John couldn't believe he hadn't recalled that particular detail earlier. And yet ... and yet. Did he really think that they could just go back to the way they had been? That he would forgive him for the biggest possible betrayal? It seemed impossible. Surely a self-certified genius could see that it wasn't so easy.

  
A knock on the door drew him out of his thoughts and for a moment, his heart skipped as his mind immediately jumped to the one person he expected to show up at his flat and knock.

  
He got up and walked to the door on unsteady legs, opening it with something that was half dread and half something he didn't dare call hope.

  
"John! I'm so glad you're home!"

  
He blinked in surprise as the woman on his doormat burst into tears. It took him a moment to recall her name. "Rose?"

  
When he and Mary had started going out, they had spent several entertaining evenings out in various pubs with some of her friends. The woman now standing on his doorstep had always been among the group, all bubbling laughter and dirty jokes. Seeing her cry simply didn't fit with his mental image of her. "What's going on? Are you all right?"

  
"I- I'm fine," she gasped, trying to collect herself. "It's ... oh god, you need to come quickly. It's Mary."

  
His blood ran cold. There was only room for one thought in his mind. _'Not again. Please, God, don't make me lose another person I care about.'_

  
"What happened?! Is she hurt?" He was already reaching for his jacket.

  
"Oh John ... she ... she got herself into terrible trouble and she won't let me help and she said not to tell you but I just know she's in danger and if you don't go find her he will do Heaven knows what to her."

  
"He? Who?!" Grabbing his phone and keys and - as an afterthought - his gun from where it was hidden in a drawer beneath the house phone, John slammed the door shut behind himself as he followed Rose outside, his panicked thoughts spinning in every direction. "Where is she?"

  
"They agreed on a meeting place, somewhere hidden where they wouldn't be interrupted," Rose sniffed, leading him to her car and taking a moment to collect herself as he rounded the vehicle to get in on the passenger's side.

  
Never had John been angrier about his lack of a driver's license. He should have gotten one ages ago, but with how rarely he actually needed to drive anywhere, it had always seemed like a superfluous expense. Now, he wished he had taken the necessary lessons, if only so he was mobile and not reliant on anyone else in case of an emergency. If anything happened to Mary because he didn't get there in time to protect her, he would never forgive himself.

  
"Take me there," he demanded the moment Rose sat behind the wheel and closed the door. "And on the way, you will tell me everything."

  
*****

 

Lestrade returned from his coffee break to the odd sight of Sherlock Holmes, notorious consulting detective, sitting in a corner of his office with his legs crossed and eyes closed, his hands fluttering through the air in front of him. He looked like someone conducting a weird pantomime, playing charades for a non-existent audience. The expression on his face was one of fierce concentration.

  
Donovan, who had followed him into his office with her own paper cup of coffee in hand, cocked her head to the side. "Oi, what're you doing there, Freak?"

  
If Sherlock heard her, he gave no reply, nor did he react in any other way. She may as well not have spoken at all.

  
"John's mentioned this to me once," Lestrade said. "You know... before ..." He trailed off, gesturing at Sherlock with a vague motion of his hand that somehow encompassed the entire mess.

  
"So? What is it?"

  
"Mind Palace," Lestrade said. "Don't ask me how it works. It seems to be some sort of memory technique where-"

  
"-you build a mental roadmap and attach memories to certain objects and places. I know," Donovan said, rolling her eyes at her superior's surprise. "Holmes isn't the only intelligent person around, you know? I may not be a bloody genius, but I do have a brain." She nodded in Sherlock's direction. "Didn't know gesturing was a common habit, though."

  
"I don't think it is, actually," Lestrade told her, frowning as he watched. "It looks like he's shuffling things around, doesn't it? Shooing flies away or something, and beckoning other things closer."

  
They both stood and watched for a couple of minutes as Sherlock continued to sit and gesture, lost in his own mind.

  
"Y-you don't think he's making good on his promise, do you?," Donovan asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

  
"The deleting thing?" Lestrade made a face. "God, I hope not. I think not, though. Didn't he say Sunday? It's Wednesday evening, there's still time. And I'm not sure you can delete stuff, if I'm honest."

  
Donovan snorted. "How often have you told him who our current Prime Minister is, exactly? Because he sure as hell wouldn't simply forget things. He must have done it on purpose."

  
They shared an uneasy look at the idea of erasing their own memories, no matter which information it may be. Then, Lestrade's expression turned wistful. "God knows there are some things I'd like to forget," he muttered, thinking of some particularly rough crime scenes and the look in his wife's eyes when she had confessed to her affair.

  
Sally sighed. "Yeah, me too. But ... an entire person? If it was just a random stranger he met on the street once or twice, fine. But this is John, boss. I doubt it will be that easy to erase him. And even if he manages to... do you really want him to revert to the way he was before John came along? Because I sure as hell don't."

  
They looked down at Sherlock in silence, both trying to imagine just how much the self-proclaimed sociopath had changed under John's good influence. Both shuddered at the idea of what might be left without that influence to curb some of Sherlock's worse behaviour.

  
"Then again," Lestrade mused aloud, "do we really want to watch him disintegrate if John never talks to him again? Look at him. The poor sod is at the end of his rope already and he's still got five days left. Well ... four and a bit. Personally, I don't want to see what becomes of him if those two don't manage to reconcile. I'm a bit afraid of what might happen, actually."

  
"All hell will break loose," Sally muttered, only partially joking. "Bad enough that I'm forced to endure his presence again, but now he's really doing a damn fine job of making me pity him, too. You'd think he's doing it on purpose to make me miserable."

  
Lestrade snorted. "Yes, Donovan, that's precisely why he and John agreed to never speak again - just so you'd be made miserable."

  
She shrugged, trying to hide the worry she actually felt. "They'll be fine, boss. They have to be."


	39. Part 8 - Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of recent events in Orlando, I just want you all to know: You matter, you are valid, and you are loved.

**Chapter 4**

 

The sudden noise of a phone ringing broke the silence and Sherlock's eyes flew open, his mind snapping back into reality as quickly as if he had merely blinked a bit slower than usually. Lestrade and Donovan both jumped and attempted to look like they hadn't been watching him, but he could feel their eyes on his face still, and it was not difficult to extrapolate what they had been doing.

  
"My phone is on your desk," he told Lestrade. "Answer and put it on speaker."

  
"The number is blocked," the DI said, looking at him questioningly. "Might be anyone."

  
"Answer and put it on speaker," Sherlock repeated.

  
Lestrade shrugged and did as he was told.

  
"Hello," Sherlock said, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

  
"Hello, gorgeous," came the sultry reply from the other end of the line. Donovan's head whipped around so fast he thought she might pull a muscle. "Miss me?"

  
"Irene." The name was more a sigh of exasperation on his lips than anything else she might have hoped for. Grumbling, he got up from his position on the floor and stalked towards the desk. "I see you are still labouring under the delusion that I hold any interest in you."

  
"I see you are still much the same. Impressive, considering you flung yourself off a roof and have a gravestone with your name on it somewhere," she replied.

  
He rolled his eyes, a bit annoyed that she couldn't see. Oh well, she'd probably guess what he was doing. "Says the woman who supposedly got herself beheaded by a terrorist group well over two years ago."

  
"You saved me," she said calmly, not even trying to deny his interference in the proceedings. "This is a curtesy call."

  
That got his attention. "Oh?"

  
"I thought you might like to know that Raphael and the usual suspects are back in town. I only heard about it five minutes ago, but I thought you should know. Unfortunately, my sources have dried up one by one since my alleged death. I'm sure you can sympathise."

  
"You should have taken better care to keep them apprised of the situation," Sherlock pointed out.

  
"What, like you did with John?" She must have heard his drawn-in breath because she continued without giving him a chance to respond. "Don't think I can't guess what happened. You sound like a wreck, I'm almost glad I can't see you. Shame about those gorgeous cheekbones of yours, but next time I get to look at your face, it better be radiant."

  
"Don't be tiresome, Irene."

  
"And the fact that you don't even deny it just confirmed my words," she sighed. "What a shame. Anyway, I have informed you, so I consider half my debt repaid. The rest will follow at another time. Perhaps I can convince you to come have dinner with me one of these days."

  
"Not while the Earth continues to spin on its axis," Sherlock said wryly. "I appreciate the heads-up. Goodbye, Irene. Don't get yourself killed again."

  
"And you, Sherlock," she purred and hung up.

  
He ended the call with a swish of his thumb and turned to look at the two other people in the room, who were openly staring. "What?"

  
"That woman ... was she _flirting_ with you?" Donovan sounded so shocked it was actually insulting.

  
Sherlock huffed. "No, why would she? She's a lesbian woman in a committed long-term relationship, but she has impeccable sense when it comes to choosing informants. I believe I shall have to return to Baker Street."

  
"Baker Street?," Lestrade repeated, baffled. "What on earth is so important about Baker Street? You haven't set foot in there in weeks, if you could avoid it. It's a miracle you haven't officially moved into my office by now. I should start collecting rent."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Very funny."

  
"Who is this Raphael person, anyway?," Donovan demanded, apparently having gotten over her surprise. "Do you think he has anything to do with this case?"

  
"I don't know," Sherlock said, surprised. That option hadn't occurred to him yet, but now that the suggestion had been made, it nagged and niggled at his mind. "He might. He might not. It's hard to tell."

  
"Yeah, all right, but who is this guy? And she said 'the usual suspects'. Who's that, then?"

  
"Some of his trusted friends, of course. If he goes anywhere, they will be with him." Sherlock growled. "We have had some previous encounters, none of which I will repeat to you in any detail. I will only say that they have always enjoyed finding fault with me and making me pay for perceived wrong-doings while deeming themselves above the law. If they are back, there is something going on. They know London is my territory. Unless they are seeking a direct confrontation, they would not dare to show their faces here."

  
Something about the way he said it seemed to resonate with Sergeant Donovan, who looked at him with wide eyes. "He's not ... _the_ Raphael, is he?"

  
Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. There's more than one person going by that name. This one would be flattered by your assumption, however, and highly gratified."

  
The twist of his mouth suggested he did not share the sentiment. "Anyway, there is something at Baker Street that he will want to get his hands on if at all possible, so I will have to go and get it first. And then we ca-"

  
He was interrupted as his phone alerted him to a second incoming call.

  
A quick glance at the caller ID made him sigh and roll his eyes, but pick up the phone, making sure the speaker was switched off. "I know, I just got a call about Ra-"

  
"He's gone."

  
"What?" It was not at all like his brother to interrupt him in the middle of speech. "Who?"

  
"The Hound," Mycroft said, sounding tired. "The Hound left a while ago to join the hunt for a lesser demon that escaped from hell. I doubled security on John, of course, but did not restrict his movements or alert him to my presence. A friend of his fiancée's arrived less than fifteen minutes ago, appearing distressed. They took off in her car."

  
"Where to?," Sherlock demanded, feeling cold dread settle in his stomach.

  
"I don't know. My team lost them."

  
"What do you mean, LOST THEM?," Sherlock roared. "You can't just _lose_ them, Mycroft!"

  
"I can and I did," his brother snapped. "Someone was very keen on getting John away from any potential followers. They blocked traffic once the car he was in had passed and it is impossible to determine which street they turned into. I have people searching for the vehicle on CCTV, but it may take several hours until we find the relevant street."

  
"Hours? Inacceptable." The dread intensified and Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "All right. I just got a call from Irene. It appears Raphael and his consorts are back in town. You know as well as I do that this is no coincidence. If they want to continue hounding me, going through John would be the way to do it. I don't know how they found out about him, or me, for that matter, but it is hardly of any relevance now. I don't have time for a discussion. You'll hear from me soon."

  
He hung up and stuffed his phone into his pocket, reaching for his coat which he had flung carelessly over one of the chairs. "Lestrade, I need to go. Don't disturb any of the papers I've arranged here, I need them in order when I come back. See-"

  
"Now wait a minute," Lestrade interrupted. "John's missing?"

  
"... I don't know," Sherlock said after a moment of hesitation. "He may just have accidentally lost my brother, but this is too much of a coincidence for me to wave it off. I need to check."

  
"I'll come with you then," Lestrade told him, jutting his chin out in defiance. "We can take my car. The siren will work in our favour and give us a clear path."

  
"You can't come," Sherlock snapped at him. "I don't have time for a discussion, but it's far too dangerous for you to come."

  
"In that case, it's definitely too dangerous for you to go alone," the DI countered, zipping up his own jacket. "Donovan, you stay here and-"

  
"Not a chance," she interrupted. "I'm not letting you go anywhere with only the Freak as back-up, sorry boss. Regulations are clear."

  
He sighed but gave in. "Fine." They turned to look at Sherlock. "Well?"

  
"Lestrade..."

  
"You said it yourself: there's no time for a discussion. Come along and get in the car."

  
Sherlock wanted to argue, to tell them there were faster ways than a patrol car, but he couldn't risk it and every moment he stood around here, arguing, was another moment where he was not looking for John. "Fine. But hurry up!"

  
*****

 

If Sally had thought that spending an entire day stuck in an office with Sherlock Holmes was a nightmare, it was absolutely nothing in comparison to being stuck with him in a car racing through London's streets.

  
"Faster!," Sherlock snapped at Lestrade.

  
"I've got my foot on the floor already, if I press down any harder, I'll break through the chassis!," Lestrade yelled back. "Now shut up and sit still, for god's sake. How the hell are you going to try and find John, anyway? He could be anywhere."

  
"Let me worry about that," Sherlock said. "Just get us to Baker Street as fast as possible and keep the car ready for us to depart immediately. I just need to run in and get something."

  
"Is it illegal?," Lestrade asked. "Because I can't let you go and get an unregistered weapon or something, even if I personally wouldn't mind."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't relax his position on the very edge of the passenger seat he had forced Sally to cede to him. He looked about ready to fling himself through the windshield, his body humming with tension.

  
Finally, they raced down Marylebone Road and turned into Baker Street, sirens blazing. The brakes squealed in protest as Lestrade pulled the car to a stop at the curb in front of 221b and Sherlock tore open the door, calling "Wait here!" over his shoulder before almost breaking down the front door in his haste to get in. He threw it open so hard it rebounded off the wall and fell shut behind him with a bang. Some lights went on upstairs and for a moment they could detect movement up there, then Sherlock was out of sight.

  
He returned less than a minute later, stuffing something into his coat and managing to look grim and breathless at the same time as he slid back into the car. "All right, off we go."

  
"Where to?"

  
"A church," Sherlock said. "St. John's Wood Church is just a few blocks away and I need you to get me there ASAP."

  
"A church?!," Lestrade repeated, incredulous. "What the hell are you going to do in a church? I've personally heard you say that you don't believe in God."

  
"Of course I don't," Sherlock told him, exasperated. "Just get me there, will you?"

  
"And what are you going to do there?"

  
"I'm going to fall to my knees and pray," the detective said, face completely straight.

  
Donovan watched him worriedly. She could only see his profile but what she saw looked tense and anxious. She wondered if praying was the only option left to them. Then she shook her head at herself. There was nothing to suggest that John was in any danger at all. Holmes was most likely overreacting, as he always seemed to do when his best friend was concerned. Even if said best friend had made it clear that he did not wish for a continuation of their friendship.

  
"How long has it been?," she asked. "Since you were in a church, I mean, never mind the praying."

  
Sherlock turned in his seat to look at her and the gaze that met hers was far too old for the face it came from. "Ages, Donovan. It's been ages."

  
She didn't ask for any further details, contenting herself with sitting back and holding onto the door handle as Lestrade drove through the notorious London traffic at breakneck speed until they finally reached the church Sherlock had demanded to see.

  
He jumped out of the car and strode towards the entrance with large steps.

  
"Come on," Lestrade said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I'm not letting him go in there alone and upset whoever happens to be inside. Not when he's in this mood."

  
Sally wanted to stop him but couldn't come up with anything to say and really, he was right. Sherlock may be on a mission only he seemed aware of, but that didn't mean they couldn't do some damage control around him. She wished John was here. He'd know precisely what to do to make Holmes slow down and pay attention to the needs of other people. As it was, they would be lucky if they did find John, by whatever means the consulting detective was going to employ.

  
The inside of the church was cool and dimly lit. Dusk was settling outside and the twilight that marked the border between day and night made the pews and pillars throw strange shadows. One of them, the strangest of all, was Sherlock himself, who marched right down the aisle towards the altar.

  
The church was mercifully empty except for a priest in his mid to late fifties, who turned around as they approached. "Sherlock! How unexpected to see you here."

  
"Father Cunningham," Sherlock replied gravely. "I'm afraid I require use of this place for a very important purpose right now."

  
"What about your companions?," the priest asked, not batting an eye at the strange request.

  
"They may stay if they want to," Sherlock shrugged. "Sergeant Donovan already has some inkling of what is going on and Detective Inspector Lestrade might as well be informed. Now, if you'd please?"

  
"Of course. You shall have all the privacy you need. I trust it won't take long?"

  
"Only as long as it needs to," Sherlock said. "I am rather pressed for time at the moment. Thank you, Father."

  
"But of course. Do come visit me for tea soon, Sherlock," Father Cunningham said, smiled at Lestrade and Donovan, and left through a side door. It swung shut behind him with a distinct air of finality and they were left alone in the church.

  
"So?," Lestrade asked. "What now?"

  
"Now," Sherlock murmured, taking slow steps towards the altar, "you will stay back there where you can't distract me, and whatever happens, stay quiet. I need to concentrate."

  
"But-"

  
"Take it or leave this instant!," Sherlock snapped. "I don't have time for discussions. _Shut. Up!_ "

  
"Come on," Sally muttered, grabbing her boss's sleeve and dragging him back towards the other end of the aisle. "Best let him get on with it."

  
"What's he doing?"

  
"Shut up and watch and we'll see," she told him, sinking onto one of the pews with a sigh and pulling him down next to her.

  
Together, they watched as the consulting detective reached the altar and placed both hands onto its surface, breathing deeply and bowing his head. He was murmuring, but the words did not carry all the way back to them. The candles flickered. Lestrade shifted, uneasy and curious.

  
Finally, Sherlock stepped back and gracefully sank to his knees in front of the altar, keeping his hands against the solid stone and pressing his brow to the altar's edge.

  
His voice gradually rose, the words becoming discernible but no more understandable.

  
"Is that Latin?," Lestrade whispered, remembering to keep his voice down.

  
"Sounds like it," Sally murmured back.

  
A moment later, the language changed and she blinked, feeling her tense muscles relax at the sound that was both familiar and utterly alien. Next to her, Lestrade simply looked confused, no doubt trying to wrap his mind around the sound of something he could hear but not interpret as a sound at all. It left people with the distinct feeling that somehow, someone was talking to them and they had tuned out so much they hadn't noticed until the speaker fell silent again. At least that was how it had been described to Sally once.

  
Finally, there was Sherlock's voice, back to his normal, dulcet English tones. "Do cover your eyes, if you value your eyesight," he said. "You have five seconds."

  
"Wh-"

  
"Not now," Sally hissed, grabbed Lestrade by the collar and unceremoniously pulled him down behind the pew, effectively blocking Sherlock and the altar from their view. "Close your eyes. Please, boss. Just do it."

  
He did, acting slowly and clearly annoyed with her for giving him orders. Sally made sure he had his face covered, then buried her own in the pit of her elbow.

  
At the altar, Sherlock's voice was rising again, the words of what sounded like an incantation pouring from his mouth at ever-increasing volume.

  
The flash of light came swiftly and suddenly, bright enough to make Sally's eyes hurt despite the fact that she had them well-covered. Static tickled down her spine and she heart Lestrade gasp next to her. "What the dev-"

  
"Shhht!," she hissed. "That's hardly the right place, is it?!"

  
"You can come out now, if you wish." Sherlock's voice sounded strange, almost tranquil. All the urgency seemed to have fled his body.

  
Sally got to her feet and looked around, watching as a grumbling Lestrade dusted off his knees. "Great, care to tell me what you just did?," he demanded.

  
And then he finally turned and looked at Sherlock, who still knelt in front of the altar.

  
"Good Lord!"

  
When they returned to the car, Sally unceremoniously shoved a stunned Lestrade onto the backseat and took the wheel herself. "Where to?"

  
The look on Sherlock's face was distant, yet focused, as if his attention did not lie within the car. "Just drive. I'll direct you as we go."

  
She nodded, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the street. It wasn't easy.

  
Next to her, Sherlock was glowing.


	40. Part 8 - Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments. Buckle in!

**Chapter 5**

  
A chill made its way down John's spine as Rose pulled up the car in the desolate parking lot. The only visible lights were provided by the car's headlights, a flickering lamp post at the other end of the lot, and a faint illumination behind the windows of the building in front of them.

  
"In there?," he asked, realising how doubtful he sounded.

  
Rose sniffed. "That's what she said. They needed a hidden place where no one would go to at this time of night. This place fit the bill."

  
"Indeed," John murmured. "It certainly looks like the kind of place no one would think to come to at night unless they were members of some secret cult or something."

  
He was pleased to note that his comment caused Rose to smile slightly. Wanting to reassure her and worried about Mary, he smiled at her. "I'll go and have a look then, all right? You stay in the car, keep the doors locked, and be ready to leave the moment anyone who isn't me or Mary approaches you. If something happens, call 999. Think you can do that?"

  
"I ... I think so," she stammered, looking frightened. "Just ... please, she's my best friend. I need her to be fine."

  
"She will be," he said, putting more conviction into his words than he himself felt. Worry for his fiancée was gnawing at him.

  
He double-checked that his gun was safely tucked into the back of his jeans and got out of the car. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his jangled nerves, but he closed the car door as quietly as possible, waited for Rose to lock the car from the inside, and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up. She smiled weakly, but returned the gesture.

  
Drawing a deep breath, John turned and marched across the crunching gravel towards the gate.

  
He knew this place, which was reassuring, even though he very much wished he didn't. The last time he had been here was months ago now, at a time when the world had been dark and deprived of colours, but at least not tumbling loosely on an axis that no longer seemed to fit in with the life John had built.

  
Still, it was a cruel twist of fate that had led Mary and this bastard here of all places. John clenched his teeth, feeling bitter bile rising in his throat at the thought that his own fiancée had not trusted him enough to tell him about this man who was trying to blackmail her with pictures of an unspecified nature.

  
John marched through the gate, unconsciously falling back into a soldier's way of walking, and reached the door sooner than he would have liked. It had not been closed completely and dim light filtered through the gap, just wide enough for him to stick his head inside far enough to get a look at the front room. There was no one there, so he carefully pushed the door open further, breathing back a sigh of relief when the hinges didn't squeal or groan in protest.

  
Quietly he snuck into the room, finding the door leading into the main part of the church partially open as well. Clearly they did not expect anyone to come by. Otherwise, the doors would have been closed to create at least the illusion of an empty building. For his part, John was glad for it.

  
He inched closer to the second set of doors and hesitated in their shadow, tilting his head to listen for any noise from the other side.

  
There was a sigh and the rustling of clothes and then Mary's voice. "It could be easy," she said, her voice pleading. "We could disappear. Gone just like that, with no one the wiser."

  
"Your husband-to-be might be of a different opinion there," a man replied, sounding vaguely amused. Mary scoffed and John felt his heart sink. "Oh please. He's so lost in his own problems he would barely notice if I was gone. It's all about Sherlock now. For someone claiming not to want anything to do with that guy anymore, he sure spends a lot of time thinking and talking about him."

  
"Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your tone?" The tinge of amusement in the man's voice was more obvious now.

  
"Don't you dare make fun of me. I don't know what your problem with this Holmes person is, but you almost fainted when I told you about how he'd shown up in the flat."

  
John sucked in a breath, doing his best to stay silent. Just how long had this been going on? Clearly she knew this man, knew him well ... and she certainly didn't sound afraid of him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He shuddered, shaking his head in private denial. No, no, no, this wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

  
"What are you going to tell him, then?," the man asked. "Your boyfriend, I mean. Are you going to tell him you're so very sorry but you just can't marry him after all? That you got a job offer in another country, perhaps? Or are you going to tell him the truth?"

  
"You mean, am I going to tell him that I only started going out with him because you asked me to?," she asked sardonically. "I'm still angry with you for that, by the way. You made me act like I'm your personal whore or something, ready to be lent out to anyone. Don't you dare do this to me again."

  
"It was beneficial, wasn't it? And he didn't treat you badly, either, did he?"

  
"No, he didn't." She sounded grudging and John felt something else then, something that pushed past his hurt and betrayal and, fuelled by both, rose to the surface - fury.

  
Reaching behind him, he pushed the door open with his free hand and strode into the room, a snarl on his face. "Maybe you should've left me then, if you could barely stand my company," he growled.

  
Mary was sitting on the altar, of all places, and John got a good look at her face as she became aware of his presence. Her scandalised "John!" actually carried a hint of fear. The man standing between her legs had to turn around first, but did not seem at all surprised to see him. Nor was he surprised by the gun levelled at him.

  
"Ah, Dr. Watson. How good of you to join us. I have so longed to meet you in person."

  
*****

  
It had all gone precisely according to plan and she smiled as she watched the spectacle unfold. Finally, the wait was over. Finally, they would get to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

  
One look at John Watson's face was all she needed to be certain of their success. The man had been standing on the edge as it was and this latest betrayal from someone he loved was exactly what they had hoped would push him over for good.

  
His hand on the gun was rock-steady, his finger curved around the trigger, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. She watched the delicate trembling of the rest of his body, tightly reined-in fury travelling through his muscles in visible waves. It was a sight to behold. For a moment, she understood why humans shied away from this short man at times.

  
Grinning to herself, she pulled out her gleaming new phone, one of humanity's many wonderful inventions, and sent a quick text. Almost immediately, a reply arrived. She read the order with satisfaction and let go of the window sill she had been ducking behind to get a good look at John Watson. Yes, they had him. And now she would continue the little game, give him that last little push he needed to seal his fate. She couldn't wait. The boss would be so pleased.

  
*****

 

John didn't move a muscle as his gaze travelled back and forth between Mary and the man still standing in the vee of her legs. He was tall, brown hair cut short and the look in his equally brown eyes in combination with the tilt of his mouth transmitted a message of acute boredom that did not fit in with their current situation at all. People with guns pointed at them should not look so disinterested. Even worse, he wasn't even trying to shield Mary - something John would have done without a second thought. To realise that this man did not even care about her wellbeing enough to keep her out of the potential line of fire did nothing to calm John's fury.

  
And Mary ... Mary simply looked shocked, as if she couldn't believe that he had not only unexpectedly shown up for their rendezvous, but had also done so carrying a fully loaded gun. However, she made no move to put some distance between herself and this stranger. "John!"

  
"Hello, Mary," he said. "Fancy seeing you here. I didn't know they relocated your workplace. What a coincidence."

  
She gaped at him, clearly unsure how to react to the way he spoke. His own voice sounded strange and cold in his ears. Lifeless, if it wasn't for the underlying fury.

  
"Tell me, how many of your 'late shifts' did you actually spend working?"

  
"I ... John ..."

  
He nodded curtly. "That's what I thought. And who is he, then?" He jerked his head at the man whose lapels she was still holding on to.

  
"He can speak for himself," the man in question said. "My name is Marcello. I don't expect that means anything to you, so why bother asking?"

  
"I like to know what to call someone before I beat them up," John said idly.

  
Marcello let out a harsh laugh. "You sound very sure of yourself."

  
"I'm the one with the gun," John pointed out, hackles rising. "Now step away from my fiancée."

  
"Oh, but I don't think she wants him to," a voice sounded from behind him. John turned his head to stare at the new arrival. "Rose! I told you to stay in the car."

  
"And miss out on all the fun?," she asked. "Hell no."

  
He blinked, took a closer look at her. She didn't look upset at all - the woman who had come knocking on his door earlier that night seemed to have disappeared and all that was left was Rose with a vicious look on her face.

  
Before he could say anything or even wrap his mind around the fact that apparently everyone he knew was out to deceive and betray him, a third voice spoke up.

  
"Rosie, do shut up and get out of the way." The man's voice was an idle drawl and he stepped through the door just as John whirled around to look at him.

  
Blonde hair had been slicked back, out of a face that would have been handsome, except for the look of malice in the man's eyes. He was almost a head taller than John and something about the way his muscles flexed as he moved reminded him of a predator - ready to strike in an instant and potentially deadly.

  
"And who are you?," John demanded. "You know what? I don't care. This is between my cheating fiancée and me, so why don't you all bugger off so we can sort this out in peace?"

  
The man laughed. "How adorable. I can see why he likes you. There had to be something to keep him so fixated on you, after all."

  
"I have no idea who you're talking about," John said. "But I want you to fuck off."

  
"Such language, tsk tsk. Really, John, haven't you realised yet that you are absolutely free to exact any revenge you want to on those two?" He nodded towards Mary and Marcello.

  
"W-what?" Surely he had misheard.

  
"Go ahead," the man said. "None of us would mind if you pulled that trigger. We sure as hell wouldn't rat you out. It must be terrible, realising there is simply no one in your life whom you can trust not to betray you. Your so-called best friend would rather fake his death than bear your company, and your lovely fiancée here threw herself right into another man's arms the moment your back was turned. It's completely understandable to want to lash out."

  
It sounded reasonable. John had no idea why, because deep down he knew it was all wrong, but somehow, it sounded reasonable. Believable. He could-

  
"Now wait a minute!," Marcello said, eyes wide with surprise. "Killing me? No one said anything abou-"

  
"Shut up," the other man snapped. Marcello did, looking cowed. Apparently, John wasn't the only one who had noticed the menacing glint in the stranger's eyes.

  
John realised his hands were still wrapped around his gun, keeping it levelled at Marcello as rage flooded his veins. This man had dared to lay a hand on Mary. His Mary. Had seduced her and was trying to take her away from him. And she wanted to go. His gun swiveled towards Mary and now he could feel the delicate tremor in his arms. He was so sick of people leaving him.

  
"Mary?," he asked, voice hoarse. "This is your decision? Him over me?"

  
Her lovely eyes were wide and scared. "John ... god, I'm not ... I never meant to ... I just ... he listened when you wouldn't. You've been so wrapped up in Sherlock, it was like you didn't even see me half the time you looked at me. And he did."

  
He ground his teeth together. "And how much did he see, huh? How much, Mary?" He thought of the freckles on her back and the appendix scar on her abdomen and the thought of another man seeing them, touching them, made his blood boil. His index finger hurt with the effort not to pull the trigger.

  
Perhaps it had been a stupid idea to bring his gun, after all.

  
And yet ... well, he had it in his hands, didn't he? And she was right there, looking at him with fear in her eyes. And she _should_ be afraid. He had trusted her, had taken a chance on her despite the gaping wound his best friend had left, and how had she thanked him for it? By cheating on him at the first opportunity, by sneaking around behind his back with another man. _And she wasn't even sorry_. Weak excuses about his perceived failings, centered around the one man he could not bear to have mentioned in his presence - but no apology. She wasn't sorry for what she had done, she was only sorry he had caught her.

  
The strain on his index finger increased and he gritted his teeth, trying to stay rational. This wasn't him. He didn't kill people out of revenge. He didn't kill people at all if he could help it, and absolutely never for selfish reasons. What was happening to him?

  
"Go on," the tall blond man coaxed. "No one will hold it against you."

  
"Oh, but _he_ would," someone else said.

  
*****

 

The reactions to his sudden appearance would have been hugely gratifying, if he hadn't been so torn between fury and panic.

  
Marcello yelped, Rose leaped backwards and scrambled to hide behind a pillar, and Raphael dropped his mask of boredom, the widening of his eyes betraying his shock at the sudden intrusion. "You!"

  
"Me," Sherlock confirmed, stepping forward. He turned his gaze away from Raphael and focused on John, who stood motionless, frozen in surprise at his sudden appearance, his expression strained. The gun hadn't moved at all, still pointed right at Mary.

  
"John, please lower the gun."

  
"Don't talk to me," John hissed.

  
Sherlock sighed, watching his friend's tense stance and his obvious struggle to stay rational.

  
"Oh, is this what you've been doing, Raphael?," he asked, deciding to leave John be and give him a chance to relax a little. "Coercion? You do know it will nullify all your attempts, of course."

  
"What do you know?," Raphael hissed. "You shouldn't even be here, Sherlock. In fact, you should be dead and in Hell."

  
"And yet here I stand," Sherlock said, injecting his voice with a calmness he did not feel. "Funny, isn't it, how I just keep ruining your plans, no matter what you do. But this time, you've gone too far."

  
"Have I?," Raphael asked. "We'll see. All it takes is for John here to pull the trigger on his lovely, cheating fiancée. Ah, sentiment. Humanity's greatest flaw, don't you think? Oh, excuse me, I forgot who I was speaking to. Of course you do."

  
Sherlock didn't respond, too busy taking in the church they were standing in. He hadn't been inside such a building for so long and now this was the second one in the course of an hour. He could only hope that the results would be similar as well. It didn't look good, to be honest.

  
The entire thing had only made sense the moment he had peered through the door and seen John aiming a gun at Mary - something he would never do if he were in his right mind. Extrapolating the circumstances had been easy from then on. Mary, of course, was the key, and he suspected he already knew why and how she was involved. In fact, the why and how were one and the same. In a way that would not make sense to a human, she had inadvertently become Raphael's sacrificial lamb.

  
And John ... John was the one chosen to pull the trigger on her, sealing his own fate in the process. Which, of course, had been the goal all along.

  
Sherlock bit back a snarl, his body itching to lunge at Raphael and tear him to pieces.

  
They stood there, facing each other, at a perfect stalemate.

  
His appearance had stopped Raphael dead in his tracks and if he had even two functioning brain cells, Raphael had to be aware that Sherlock would never allow him to coax John into cold-blooded murder. At the same time, Raphael held all the power at this very moment. His influence on John - an influence John clearly wasn't aware of - was substantial and might just be enough to tip the odds in his favour. The outcome would be devastating to everyone.

  
"You know," Sherlock said idly, "I always knew you were vermin, but I never thought you'd stoop so low as to try and corrupt someone's soul."


	41. Part 8 - Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your enthusiasm, you guys are fantastic!

**Chapter 6**

 

John didn't understand.

  
A minute ago, he had been itching to pull the trigger on his cheating fiancée and her lover, and suddenly there was ... him. The one man who, by all rights, should not even know he was here. He had promised to keep his distance and had given John another four days to make up his mind. And yet he was here, looking the same way he always did, completely unruffled, every inch the posh git who did not care about others.

  
John frowned at his own thoughts. That didn't make sense. If he didn't care, why would he be here? He shook his head, feeling off-balance. This had been happening increasingly often ever since the mad wanker had returned from the dead. John would look at him or talk to him or think about him and the thoughts in his head would not align with what he knew to be logical and true. It was confusing and unsettling and he wanted it to stop.

  
What was it this Raphael-guy had just been accused of? Coercion? But how? Why?

  
And now his former best friend was standing in the middle of a church and talking about souls, of all things.

  
He licked his lips, willing his mind to make sense of what was happening. "Souls?"

  
"Oh yes," the detective said. Did he really look relieved at being addressed by John or was that just his imagination playing tricks on him? "Raphael here is really quite determined to corrupt your soul, John. Haven't you noticed? There is no universe in which you would kill your fiancée, no matter what she may have done."

  
John blinked. It was true, of course.

  
He would never kill Mary. So why was he still aiming a gun at her? She could have run half a dozen times already, of course, he barely kept her in his sight. Yet she stayed frozen to the spot, still sitting on the altar even as Marcello had stepped away from her to get out of the line of fire, leaving her completely unprotected.

  
All it would take was a quick twitch of his finger, nothing more. One small movement, a single shot, and she'd pay for her betrayal with her life. And that, John realised, was not something he wanted. It wasn't something he wanted at all, and the fact that he nevertheless stood here with a gun aimed at her was both confusing and disturbing.

  
Slowly, his hands shaking with the effort, he made his fingers activate the safety and unfurl from their grasp around the handle. The sound of the gun clattering to the marble floor was far too loud in his ears.

  
"Thank you." The sound of that familiar, rich baritone drew him from his haze. There was definitely relief in his voice.

  
"You think you've won, do you?," Raphael asked, his voice snide, hands clenched into fists. "You think that's all it took?"

  
"If it was that easy, I wouldn't have bothered coming. John can look after himself and make decisions without my interference - even if you are trying to manipulate him. Tell me, when did you trigger this irrational anger against me? After I came back or just before I set foot on British soil again?"

  
"You shouldn't have come back at all!," the blond man hissed. "You fell!"

  
"So I did," he agreed, nodding. "Three times, some might say. Funny how I managed to rise despite that, huh? And really, if you want to be picky about it, I only fell once."

  
"You just said-"

  
"I know what I said," the detective snapped. "Once, I was shoved. Once, I jumped. And once I fell."

  
"That doesn't even make sense."

  
"Doesn't it? Then why am I standing here, when we are both aware that I should be dead?"

  
"Luck! Human trickery!," Rose screeched from where she was standing, glaring at him. "You must have prepared it all in advance, had something in place to catch you when you jumped off the roof!"

  
"That would indeed have been a very fascinating example of 'human trickery'," came the mocking response.

  
"It doesn't matter how you did it," Raphael snapped, glaring at Rose in a way that made her subside and meekly step back. "You're useless and helpless, Holmes. All you're doing here is stalling for time. Waiting for something to happen?"

  
"I am waiting for you to use your brain, but I'm afraid the sun will burn out before that happens."

  
The insult made Raphael clench his jaw and John found himself regretting having let go of the gun. He should have simply lowered it, but the temptation to pull the trigger had been too strong to resist much longer with the weapon still in his hands. Now, he longed to pick it up again, to aim the barrel at this man and hold him at bay, should he try to attack. It certainly looked like that was precisely what he wanted to do.

  
Even now, after eighteen months of believing his friend dead and another couple of months of helpless fury at him, John did not like the thought of anyone attacking the madman he had chosen to throw his lot in with. Surely there was a limit as to how often he could escape death's clutches, wasn't there?

  
Distracted by his thoughts, John did not notice the glances shared between Marcello and Rose, until the former leapt at him and dragged him around. His instincts kicked in, muscles tensing as he got ready to fight, but the cold press of a sharp blade against his neck made him freeze.

  
"John!" For a moment, he thought the mad bastard would throw himself at Marcello, but thankfully, he stayed where he was and turned to Raphael.

  
"Good boy, Holmes. One wrong move and your friend is dead." Raphael sounded far too happy at the prospect. "We wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

  
"No." It sounded hoarse, a thin tremor of fear working its way through that familiar voice. "Please."

  
Positioned right in the middle between John and Marcello on one side, his back turned to them, and Raphael on the other, the consulting detective slowly raised his hands - and dropped to his knees.

  
*****

 

The marble floor was cold and hard beneath his knees but he barely noticed it, too focused on the enemy in front of him to pay attention to something as trivial as the ground.

  
"Please," Sherlock repeated. "Don't hurt him."

  
Behind him, he could hear John's sharp in-draw of breath, doubtlessly surprised by an action that must seem incredibly out of character to him.

  
For a moment, he felt painfully glad that he had knocked Lestrade and Donovan out, leaving them asleep outside in the car where they could not interfere. He didn't even want to imagine what might happen if two additional vulnerable people were thrown into the already toxic mix he and John had found themselves in. Not that John was aware of that yet. He had clearly realised that something else was going on, something he had no previous notion of, but that was all there was to it.

  
Raphael laughed, the same laugh that had rung in Sherlock's ears for weeks after his initial Fall. Cold, with absolutely no humour. "Ah, how precious. Sherlock Holmes, on his knees, pleading for an ordinary human's life. How much farther can you sink, hm?"

  
"Not far enough to get even close to your level," Sherlock replied. "The deepest pit of Hell is reserved for the likes of you and your little friends here."

  
"I always knew I was hot," Raphael mused. "But it does feel pleasantly cool in here. Not at all like Hell, don't you think? How did you crawl out of that place, anyway?"

  
"Step by step," Sherlock lied. "I pretended every rock I used to climb upwards was your face and I was kicking your teeth in to get a good grip. It worked fabulously."

  
Raphael snorted. "Very funny. I do confess I'm impressed though. You're the only Fallen I have ever heard of to simply dust himself off and continue as if nothing had happened. Well ... almost." He made a flapping gesture with his hand. "I see you're still burdened with a certain ... impotence."

  
"I adapted," Sherlock shrugged, privately wondering how his opponents had not yet realised he was lying through his teeth.

  
"Liar!," Rose hissed. Ah. There it was. "No one can simply _adapt_ to Falling!" ... or maybe not.

  
He fought hard not to roll his eyes at her. "If you say so, it must of course be true. Want me to tear out your wings so you can try it yourself?"

  
"And still you're stalling for time," Raphael pointed out with quiet satisfaction. "Trying to distract us with idle conversation instead of actually doing anything. Marcello here could have cut your dear John's throat a hundred times in the course of this conversation."

  
"He could have," Sherlock agreed. "But he didn't. And we both know why that is, don't we?"

  
The faint lines around his eyes betrayed his annoyance even as he worked to sound unaffected. "Oh really?"

  
"If you kill him now, he dies a Martyr for a cause he doesn't even know of. You and I both know what happens then. All your pretty little plans will be ruined and result in the precise opposite of what you meant to achieve. Your only hope was to lead him to corrupt his soul and he was stronger than your suggestions. He put down the gun."

  
Raphael smiled. "Ahh, but you see, I can kill him without turning him into a martyr. This blade is damned obsidian, forged from pure corruption from the deepest pits of Hell. As I'm sure you remember, it cuts right through the soul."

  
Sherlock hesitated. He turned his head, glanced at the blade pressed against John's throat and knew Raphael hadn't lied. Corrupted obsidian. It would certainy do the trick, though it did beg the question why Raphael had wanted John to corrupt his own soul. Oh, obvious. He liked the thought of his victims walking to their doom on their own volition. Mind racing, Sherlock tried to find a way out of this that would allow him to keep his cards close to his chest and not endanger John at the same time. The answer was obvious. Distraction.

  
"Give me the gun," he said slowly, licking his lips. "You want to get rid of me, don't you? John may be the intended victim here, but as long as I'm around, there will be someone to protect him, someone who knows what you are and what you can do. There will be other opportunities to get at John, but you will never get another chance to get rid of me. Let him go now, allow him time ... say, 10 years. I want your word on it."

  
"And how, precisely, does that relate to me giving you the gun?," Raphael asked, clearly looking for a trap even as he got distracted by the suggestion behind Sherlock's words.

  
Sherlock took a deep breath and made his desperate offer: "Once I have your word that John will not be harmed by you or anyone associated with you, I will take this gun, press the muzzle to my head, and pull the trigger."

  
The look of delight on Raphael's face was obscene, but what really got him was John's reaction, a desperate _"What?! No!"_ that tore itself from his throat and left Sherlock struggling not to turn around and look at him.

  
"Ohhh, _wonderful_!," Raphael crowed. "Tell me, Sherlock, is John Watson the only one here who hasn't yet realised that you would do absolutely anything for him?"

  
This time, he did turn. He had to. Just a small turn of his head so he could see John's face out of the corner of his eye and lock gazes with him.

  
His answer came without hesitation. "Yes."

  
John made a choked sound, no doubt seeing some of what Sherlock felt written all over his face. He opened his mouth, but words seemed beyond him.

  
Sherlock turned his head away, focusing his attention back on Raphael. "Well? Do I have your word?"

  
"An interesting proposal, no doubt," Raphael mused, pacing in a semi-circle around him. "Watch you annihilate yourself for the promise of ten years of an undisturbed life for John Watson? And you swear to pull the trigger of a fully loaded weapon pressed to your own head?"

  
"If you swear to hold up your end of the bargain, yes."

  
The seconds ticked by as Raphael mulled it over, clearly torn between his greed for what the corruption of John's soul would gain him and the need to see Sherlock annihilated.

  
"Oh, what the hell. Ten years are barely a blink of an eye. I give you my word that John Watson will be left in peace by me and anyone associated with me for ten years, if you hold up your end of the bargain right now."

  
"And you swear it on your soul?," Sherlock demanded.

  
"I swear," Raphael said. He waved his hand and Marcello let go of John.

  
Sherlock worked hard not to show his relief, but some of it seeped out nevertheless. "Then give me the gun."

  
"No," John gasped behind him, sounding urgent. "You can't do this."

  
"I can, and I must," he replied, accepting the heavy weapon and releasing the safety. Staying on his knees, he slowly turned around until he could look John fully in the face. Thankfully, Marcello had not accidentally nicked his skin before he lowered the knife and stepped away. "You did not wish for my presence in your life and while I would have given anything to share yours, I can at least save it, even if mine is forfeit."

  
He raised the gun to his head, pressing the cold metal of its muzzle against his temple and working hard to keep his hand steady as he wrapped his index finger around the trigger.

  
"Have a good life, John." His voice broke on his friend's name.

  
The last thing to be heard before he pulled the trigger was John's desperate voice.

  
"SHERLOCK!"


	42. Part 8 - Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

The gunshot ricocheted around the room, the echo of the sound amplified by the church's natural acoustics and mixed with John's scream of terror.

  
His shout ended abruptly as he choked, staring uncomprehendingly at the sight before him.

  
It couldn't be.

  
At the edge of his vision, he noted that Raphael looked just as shocked as he felt, and Rose hissed somewhere behind him.

  
"Well, that was interesting," Sherlock said and lowered the gun. "Ouch."

  
They gaped at him in astonishment as he slowly rose to his feet, bending forward to brush the dust off his knees.

  
Finally, Raphael was the first to find his voice. "Marcello," he rasped. "Kill the doctor."

  
"Ah-ah," Sherlock interrupted, raising a hand before Marcello could do more than return to his previous position with the knife pressed to John's throat. "You gave your word that you would not harm him."

  
"If you held up your end of the bargain!"

  
He shrugged. "So? I promised to put the gun to my head and pull the trigger. Which is precisely what I did. I never mentioned anything about killing myself. Really, Raphael, I was absolutely serious when I told you to use your brain. It is hardly my fault that you failed to do so."

  
"But ... how? You are Fallen!"

  
"I WAS SHOVED!," Sherlock roared at him, causing the other man to actually take a step backwards in surprise at his sudden volume. "Shoved by you and your little friends there. Did you think I would not find a way back? Did you really think your actions would be enough to send me to Hell? You were not justified in what you did and I remained, incapacitated but very much alive. And believe me, I have been waiting for this moment for years."

  
"Sherlock," John rasped, testing the shape of his name on his tongue. He didn't quite know what had happened, but the idea of Sherlock dying - _again_ \- right in front of him - again! - had made him as terrified as he had last been when he had seen him standing on that roof. And the moment he had called out his name, all his aimless, inexplicable fury had vanished, lifting from his mind like fog evaporating in sunshine. "Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

  
"Quite the opposite of Hell, John," came the amused reply, much to his confusion, before Sherlock - and it was ridiculously relieving to think his name again - turned his attention back to Raphael and the others.

  
"Marcello, you will let John go right this moment or I swear to you I will annihilate you where you stand."

  
"You can't do shit!," Rose screeched, circling the room to stand beside Raphael. "You fell!"

  
"First you shoved me," Sherlock said. "Then I jumped off a roof. And somewhere in between, I fell. Always for John Watson."

  
He advanced on her for half a step and John could see the doubt on her face even as he felt the press of the knife against his throat lessen.

  
"Tell me, do you know what happens when one of us, even a Fallen like me, offers to sacrifice their life for someone?"

  
"You get a cookie?," Raphael sneered, clearly unwilling to admit even to himself that the tables had turned.

  
Sherlock's smile was dangerous. "It's like handing in a job application and the moment you apply, you cannot die until your application has been processed and approved or denied. I jumped off that roof, ready to die, and I never hit the ground."

  
John felt Marcello lower the knife completely before the man slowly stepped away from him, clearly understanding the meaning behind Sherlock's words even as they remained incomprehensible to John himself.

  
Even Raphael looked wary. "No."

  
"Yesss," Sherlock hissed. "I rose, Raphael. I am not Fallen. Not anymore. I rose and I got a job offer, the discussion of which kept me away from home for over a year. Thanks to your manipulation of John's emotions, I was hesitant to accept the offer that had been made to me. But the moment you abducted him today, you sealed your fate. All I had to do was stop by a church on my way here and formally accept the task given to me."

  
"No," Raphael repeated, backing further away and shaking his head. "This isn't possible."

  
"Oh, it is possible," Sherlock insisted, turning to glare at Marcello who had left John's side and was inching towards his friends. At the sight of Sherlock's gaze, he promptly hurried up and moved to stand behind them.

  
Planting himself firmly between John and the three others, Sherlock continued. "Why don't we stop this little charade and let John here see what is really going on? I'm sure our conversation doesn't make much sense to him. How about we rip away some dimensions and let him see? No? Well, too bad. I'm not a Fallen, Raphael. "

  
For a second, the air shimmered around them and then John could do nothing but stare, uncomprehending, at the sight before him.

  
His view of the three people opposite Sherlock was completely blocked, blocked by a pair of gigantic wings sprouting from his friend's back, completely unimpeded by the layers of clothes he was wearing. Each one was wider than Sherlock was tall, their bright silver colour shimmering with hints of green and blue not unlike Sherlock's iridescent eyes. Raw power filled the air like static and when Sherlock spoke, his deep voice echoed through every nook and cranny of the church.

  
"I'm a Guardian."

  
*****

 

There was no time to take in John's reaction behind him, not with the three angels in front of him doing their best impressions of headless chickens. Rose and Marcello both looked about ready to dig their way through the solid stone wall of the church and Raphael had gone pale with fear and fury.

  
"It means nothing!"

  
"Doesn't it?," Sherlock asked, unable to keep the smile from his voice. "There is nothing you can do, Raphael. You can no more harm John than you could march into Hell and spit in Lucifer's face. Any harm inflicted on him will be deflected and the perpetrator punished. Not two hours ago, I kneeled at an altar similar to this one and vowed to protect this life, to guard this soul and to cherish this person known as John Watson."

  
Raphael's shoulders dropped. "Fine. I know when I have lost. We shall be leaving then."

  
"Not so fast," another voice interrupted. "I would like a word with the three of you before you depart."

  
If they had looked afraid before, it was nothing compared to the panic on their faces as Mycroft ambled through the door as if he had been standing outside for a while, just waiting for the right moment. The level of power in the room tripled as he took in the scene and dropped his shields, gleaming white wings unfurling from his back. They were so blindingly bright it almost hurt to look at them.

  
Rose made a soft, keening noise and tried to shield her eyes.

  
"I believe my brother was not done talking to you about certain matters," Mycroft said idly. "I assume he is quite interested in your explanations regarding a number of murdered Nephilim in this city. An interest which I share."

  
Coming from his mouth, the words sounded like a death sentence and the three angels blanched further.

  
Sherlock did not take his eyes off them as he addressed his brother. "You figured it out, then?"

  
"It was hardly a difficult leap to make, once in possession of all the facts," Mycroft pointed out. "Among those of us who are higher-ranking, it is no secret what your John is meant for. It is also no secret that there are those who do not believe him worthy of the task and want the job for themselves. The only way to disqualify him from the position would be to make him corrupt his soul and there is only one foolproof way of doing so - making him kill a Nephil. They set up a string of murders to keep you occupied and distracted from John, manipulated him into rejecting your presence at every turn, and set him up with Mary. Only half Nephil and quite unaware of her own roots, yet sufficient to play the part. All it took was a gun and a strong sense of betrayal. Child's play."

  
Mycroft's voice made every sentence fall like the blade of a guillotine, his sharp eyes sparkling with fury. "Is it not so?"

  
"N-no," Raphael stammered, trying to back away and bumping into his companions. "I didn't ... we'd never ..."

  
"And yet careful investigation has shown that a similar series of deaths occurred some time ago in Mexico City, at a time when you just happened to be in that area," Mycroft said. "In combination with the fact that you appear on CCTV in streets close to the current crime scenes, that makes for a frankly amazing coincidence. One might almost be tempted to call it _damning_."

  
The angel ducked, looking nervous. "I can explain. I was just ..." His eyes skittered about the room in search of an answer before fixing on Sherlock. "... investigating! Yes. I was investigating these horrendous crimes."

  
"Before they occurred? How _fascinating_. Please, do tell me all about how you found out who would be the next victim and why you did not consider protecting them, as was your duty."

  
Sherlock shivered, feeling the temperature drop in response to his brother's mood. A hint of frost began creeping across the window panes. He stepped backwards until he came to stand closer to John, and bent his wings back, encasing him in a human-sized bubble of warmth.

  
"I can't see," came a muffled protest behind him.

  
Sherlock blinked. Of all the things, this was not what he had expected John's reaction to be like. Perhaps he was still in shock, but past experience had made him wary of making assumptions about his friend's state of mind. "My apologies."

  
He kept his wings were they were, solid and real, but removed them from sight with nothing but a thought. If John understood what he was doing, he didn't comment. And anyway, there would hopefully be time for explanations later. John's nature would not allow him to walk away without getting answers. Not this time. Just to be certain, Sherlock also took one step to the side, realising that John's shorter build would not allow him to see over his shoulder.

  
"Amusing as it is to watch you scramble for excuses," Sherlock said, drawing everyone's attention, "I suggest we speed up the process so I can get John out of here. He has been through enough. I believe we may get answers much faster by applying to Raphael's inherit remains of humanity, brother dear."

  
Mycroft raised one eyebrow in interest. "What do you suggest?"

  
Slowly, Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out the one thing he had brought along from Baker Street. "When I last had the questionable pleasure of meeting Raphael and his friends here, they were quite busy tearing out my wings," he explained, struggling to keep his tone even at the memory of pure agony. "Busy enough that Raphael did not notice he had lost this."

  
He held up the large feather, its coppery colour shining in the dim light.

  
Raphael's expression went from scared to downright terrified. "This is impossible."

  
"It seems quite real to me," Sherlock said. "I found it on the pavement right next to where you left me. And it just so happens that your wings are of this very same colour - it is quite distinctive, don't you think? Almost but not quite like dried blood. How fitting. Perhaps you should check your wings, though I imagine the missing feather has grown back by now."

  
Driven by panic and completely forgetting about Mycroft, Raphael took a large step forward, his hands outstretched as if to snatch the feather from Sherlock's hand. He froze before he had time for another step, his expression indicating that it was not of his own volition.

  
"I do believe we can take this reaction as confirmation of your words, Sherlock," Mycroft observed idly, as if he had not just paralysed an angel with nothing but his will. Three, in fact, for neither Rose nor Marcello had so much as blinked since their attempt to flee when he had first entered the room.

  
"Indeed. Well then. Ask him whatever you want to know," Sherlock said.

  
"Why would I cooperate?," Raphael gasped, regaining his ability to speak as Mycroft carefully loosened his hold on him. "All of this is just circumstantial, you cannot prove my involvement in any of these killings."

  
"Correct," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lighter. "I can, however, exercise my right to punish you for attempting to corrupt my charge's soul. For example, I could burn a feather of yours and send you straight to Hell. Oh look, I happen to have one at hand. The coincidences just keep piling up, don't they?"

  
Raphael licked his lips. "Don't," he said quietly, all traces of his earlier arrogance gone. "Promise you won't burn it and I will tell you everything you want to know."

  
"Really?," Sherlock asked. "What is the exact difference in temperature between the sun's surface and a sunspot?"

  
"How the hell would I know?!," Raphael snapped.

  
Sherlock gave a delicate shrug, idly playing with the lighter in his hand. "I have no idea. You were the one who claimed to know the answers to all my questions."

  
"Do stop taunting him, brother," Mycroft interrupted.

  
"Fine," Sherlock muttered, then raised his voice. "I promise not to burn your feather, if you truthfully answer our questions pertaining to the murders of the Nephilim as well as your plans regarding John Watson."

  
Raphael talked for half an hour, giving a full confession, much to the Holmes brothers' satisfaction.

  
"Very well," Mycroft said in the end. "That leaves us with the question of how to punish you and your accomplices." He nodded toward Marcello and Rose, who were too paralysed to even shiver in fear. The expressions in their eyes said they would have liked to, however. "Sherlock, I believe Raphael is yours to do with as you please. All of this was aimed at you and John, after all."

  
"No," Sherlock said, watching his brother's eyebrows flick up in surprise even as Raphael looked at him in shock. "There is only one thing I want to do to him and I am not allowed to do it." He held up the feather and the lighter. "I gave my word not to burn this. You, however, have made no such promise, brother dear."

  
It was no doubt a mean thing to do, but he felt little inclination for mercy towards a man who had not only tried to corrupt John's soul, but who had actually killed several Nephilim and been more than willing to sacrifice more for the sake of it.

  
Mycroft looked impressed and pleased - clearly he had not liked the idea of leaving Raphael with less than the punishment he deserved for his crimes. "Very good, brother mine."

  
He held out his hand for Sherlock to pass him the feather. "If you would be so kind as to take care of his two companions? I believe we can agree that they have quite obviously fallen from grace."

  
Sherlock gave a curt nod, watching the panic on the three angels' faces with no small amount of satisfaction. This, after all, was the fate they had planned for him all those years ago. If he had not been innocent of the crime they had used as an excuse to rip out his wings, this was what would have awaited him - eternity in constant agony with no relief and no chance of redemption but a miracle. And those were in notoriously low supply down there.

  
There was only one thing he had to do first - he turned around and reached for John, holding on to him with one hand while pressing his other against John's forehead. He managed to catch him just in time before he collapsed and carefully lowered him onto the nearest pew. There were some things John did not need to witness. Only then did he turn towards the angels responsible for his own fall.

  
"There is no need to struggle," he murmured in their ears as he moved to stand between them, leaving John on the other side of the church. "It is the very same thing you did to me, so you already know how it works. Any last words?"

  
He glanced at his brother, who relaxed his hold over them enough to let them speak.

  
"Please," Rose gasped. "You can't do this. You're a _Guardian_. You can't do this to us."

  
Marcello remained stubbornly silent, already resigned to his fate.

  
"You only missed one small detail here, Rosie," Sherlock told her quietly. "I'm an Angel, not a Saint."

  
And at the same time as Mycroft flicked on the lighter and Raphael started screaming, Sherlock grabbed her wings and _tore_.


	43. Part 9 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Thank you all for your overwhelming response to the last chapter! You guys are fantastic!

**Part IX**

 

  
_"I’d rather be your lover than your friend, but I’d rather be your friend than your nobody."_  
_\- Unknown_

 

  
**Chapter 1**

 

The Master was alive. The Master was alive and safe and the Hound was glad. The escaped demon had been caught and dragged back to Hell, where it belonged, but by then the Hound had already realised that the Master was in grave danger and the Hound wasn't there to protect him.

  
_Shame._

  
He had run back, a black shape in the darkest night, but by the time he arrived at the man cave with the ghosts in it, the Master was safely unconscious and his mate and the mate's brother had dealt with the threat. The stench of singed feathers stung in his nose as he slowly padded closer, his head held low as the archangel turned to stare at him.

  
"You took your time," the archangel said cooly. "I believe you had orders to stay and protect."

  
The Hound hung his head and whined his apology about the demon.

  
A sigh. "Very well. It was a cunning trick to get you away. I hope you will learn from this. Your packmates are more than capable of dealing with a single escaped demon on their own. Do not make this mistake again."

  
He whined again, feeling the intense urge to drop to the ground and present his belly in surrender. The archangel held more power than he had shown at their last encounter in this cave.

  
The Master's mate didn't even look at him. He was turning a singed feather in his hands and appeared deep in thought. Finally, he said. "Oh, leave him be. It all turned out quite well in the end. Perhaps this is the chance I have been waiting for."

  
The archangel shrugged. "If you say so." He turned back to the Hound. "You. Go home. Your job here is done. Remember this incident and learn from it."

  
The Hound huffed his agreement, daring to lift his head a little.

  
"Off you go."

  
He cast one last look at the Master, lying prone on one of the dead tree logs, wrapped in his mate's dark grey fur. The Master looked peaceful, safe, and the Hound whined in his direction before turning to leave.

  
He dashed out into the night, lifting his nose to the wind to find his way. A moment later, he picked up the scent of his own trail, leading him straight back to the place where he had emerged into this world. It was time to return home.

  
*****

  
They watched the Hound run off in silence, the tips of their wings brushing as Mycroft came to stand beside Sherlock.

  
"Is it?," he asked quietly.

  
Sherlock shrugged, thoughtful. "It might be."

  
He cast a glance back at John, stretched out on a pew, wrapped in Sherlock's coat. "I did not intend for him to find out this way. I had hoped to get him away from Raphael without our true nature being revealed, but now I think that perhaps it is good. There are no secrets left between us now. Well, none that can't wait, at any rate."

  
Mycroft nodded. "John might be willing to hear you out now, if only to satisfy his need for answers."

  
Sherlock turned to look at him, feeling a small smile playing around his lips. "A chance to explain is all I needed. And with Mary gone ..." He trailed off.

  
"Ah," Mycroft said. "I'll put my people on her trail, but I do not believe she will have anything of substance to add to this sad story. Perhaps it will be best for all involved if she simply fades into the past without too much fuss."

  
"If John wishes to see her again, you will present him with the chance to do so." Sherlock didn't make it a suggestion or even a request.

  
"As you wish," Mycroft conceded. "But I do not believe you have anything to fear from that direction. Your doctor does not take well to betrayal."

  
Sherlock made a face. "As if I didn't know."

  
There was a minute of companionable silence between them.

  
Finally, Sherlock spoke again. "I left Lestrade and Donovan unconscious in the car outside. Perhaps their presence here can be used to spin a believable tale about what happened to the serial killer the Yard has been hunting."

  
Mycroft nodded. "I'll have my people handle it. What do you wish to do with John?"

  
Sherlock allowed himself to stare at the man in question, soaking up the sight of him so close without anger twisting his face. He longed to reach out and touch, to skim his fingers through his short blond hair, trail a hand down his arm, gather him close and never let go.

  
He sighed. "I don't know how he will react to any of this. He still has four days left to make his decision. I promised to keep my distance until then. Considering the circumstances, I'd be obliged if you could return him to his flat and let him know that the choice is still his to make."

  
"And you?"

  
"I'll go back to Baker Street," Sherlock said, flexing his wings and enjoying the sensation of being able to do so. "The sky is cloudy and at this time of night no one will notice me landing in Regent's Park."

  
"Very well. Do be careful, brother mine."

  
Sherlock granted him one of his rare smiles. "You know, I think I'll be all right."

  
He retrieved his coat from John's form, pulled it on and inhaled the mingled scents of himself and John on the heavy cloth. Hope flared in his chest, a sweet pain he didn't know what to do with. Perhaps, in time, Baker Street might come to smell like this again - two lives shared, intertwined.

  
He walked out of the church in which his own funeral had taken place two years ago, spread his wings and, with a powerful beat, shot into the sky.

  
The rush of freedom and joy was similar to when he had taken flight for the very first time after his death and he couldn't help but laugh as the heavy weight of gravity and fear was lifted off his chest.

  
His muscles strained, still getting reaccustomed to the effort of moving his wings, and to Sherlock there was no sweeter ache.

  
Yes, he thought as he spiraled upwards before turning towards Baker Street, there was indeed room for hope.

  
*****

 

The first thing he became aware of was soft leather pressed to his cheek where he remembered nothing but oddly warm air in an otherwise cold room. The second thing he became aware of was that he was lying down when he was sure he had been standing only a moment ago.

  
Groaning, John dragged open his eyes and blinked in the dim interior of ... one of Mycroft's cars. Bloody hell.

  
"And a good evening to you, John. Or perhaps that is night. It is almost midnight already. I trust you have slept well?"

  
Of all the things John had been prepared for, waking up to Mycroft bloody Holmes making small talk wasn't even on the list. Grunting as his stiff muscles ached in protest, he pushed himself upright and slumped into the seat. "What the hell just happened?"

  
"You woke up," Mycroft said, in a voice usually reserved for morons or small children asking inane questions.

  
"Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you." John rolled his eyes. "I meant, I was standing in a church and suddenly I woke up here."

  
"As I said: you woke up," Mycroft repeated. "All your memories are intact, John. Raphael had quite a hold of your mind and emotional state, leading to a noticeable discordance in your thoughts - so noticeable, in fact, that you yourself started to become aware of it. When you said my brother's name earlier tonight, despite your previous inability to even think it, you inadvertently broke free of Raphael's influence over you. Your mind is yours and yours alone. I suggest you make good use of it."

  
"So ... that wasn't a dream? The ... what happened in the ... the church?"

  
"Everything you remember did in fact happen," the older Holmes brother confirmed. "Sherlock thought it prudent to spare you from witnessing some of the events that transpired, hence the rather abrupt end of your recollections and your current disorientation."

  
John scowled. "He just won't stop making decisions for me, huh? I can make up my own bloody mind and decide for myself what I want and do not want to see."

  
"And my brother can decide what he wishes you to see him do," Mycroft pointed out. "Do not think it was an easy choice to make. In the end, he did what he thought best, as is usually the case. You should be aware by now that he always has your well-being at heart."

  
John wanted to argue, to remind him that his well-being certainly hadn't played any role in Sherlock's considerations when he had jumped off a bloody roof, but the memory of that very same man offering to shoot himself in the head to save him effectively prevented any words from forming.

  
Mycroft clearly followed his train of thought and gave him a pointed look.

  
Looking for another topic to talk about - he didn't want to think about Sherlock because thinking about Sherlock made him think about things he couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around - he found another question to ask. "Where is Mary? What happened to her?"

  
"I fear your bride-to-be snuck away and fled in the general chaos caused by Sherlock's sudden appearance. My people are working on tracking her down and I assure you we shall find her soon. The level of her involvement is not yet fully clear to us, but it appears she had no previous knowledge of Raphael's plans and was grossly misled by him and his ... associate."

  
John nodded, feeling a dull ache in his chest at the reminder that his fiancée had been cheating on him for months. Regardless of the lies Marcello must have told her, she had still chosen to betray John rather than end their relationship. In fact, if he could trust her conversation with Marcello before he had revealed himself, she had actually been with the other man before meeting John. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the thought. Another thing he did not want to have to ponder right now.

  
"What happened to them?," he asked, hoping for a distraction. "Raphael and the others?"

  
"They were punished according to our rules," Mycroft said shortly. "Sherlock wished to spare you the sight of that. Our kind tends to be far stricter in terms of punishment than humans usually are, no matter how hard you may try."

  
A shiver ran down John's back. It certainly didn't sound like the three had gotten of lightly. He was reasonably sure he did not want to hear what precisely had happened to them. He certainly didn't want to hear it in Mycroft's compassionless voice.

  
Time for another question, then. "Where is Sherlock?"

  
_'He should be here'_ , he thought. In a way, he had expected him to be, though he could not quite say why.

  
Mycroft actually looked uncomfortable at that. "He arranged for his own transport home. He expressed doubt as to your reaction to his presence, considering the promise he made. As far as I am aware, he has returned to Baker Street." Mycroft hesitated. "I do not believe he will approach you on his own. You do have four days left, John. I suggest you think long and hard about your decision."

  
"Or what? You'll come after me?," John demanded.

  
"Of course not, don't be stupid." He sounded appalled at the very idea. "My brother would never forgive me."

  
He took a deep breath. "No. I merely meant to say that a wrong decision on your part may very well destroy you both. All our differences aside, Sherlock is the only family I have left. I would deeply regret his loss."

  
The car came to a stop. John didn't have to look outside to know they were in front of his flat.

  
"Have a good day, Dr. Watson. Choose wisely."

  
*****

 

After all that had happened that night, standing outside the flat he shared with Mary felt decidedly surreal. It was like a damn good joke, actually, for him to be right back where he had started; almost as if his entire world hadn't been turned on its head tonight.

  
He had left this very building firmly believing in Sherlock's betrayal and the fact that Mary was the best thing that could have happened to him, only to return with the knowledge that, apparently, it was the other way round. Things like that could give a man whiplash.

  
Sighing, John trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door, letting himself into the flat. Every bone in his body ached from his uncomfortable position in the car and he still keenly felt the exhaustion the flow and ebb of adrenaline had caused.

  
Barely pausing long enough to toe off his shoes and shrug off his jacket, he shuffled through the dark flat and into the bedroom. The flat was empty, of course. Mycroft would not have brought him back here if there was a chance of Mary being there. Which, if you thought about it, was actually quite a sad statement about John's relationship with her. He collapsed into bed and buried his face in his pillow. It smelled a bit like her and he remembered how they always used to share his pillow, her own stuffed into a corner of the bed and out of the way, ignored for the sake of closeness.

  
How was it possible for that woman to be the same person who had chosen to cheat on him, to let herself be coerced into a relationship with him by someone who, apart from his advantage in height, certainly lost to John in terms of character and sentiment? It was incomprehensible, yet he could not make himself believe that she had been brainwashed into doing it. Her every action had spoken against her in that regard and he, at least, knew what it meant to feel and do things he knew were wrong, and how to fight against it.

  
Groaning, he turned the pillow over, banishing the last traces of her scent and pressing his nose into the soft fabric, willing his eyes to close and sleep to overcome him.

  
It wouldn't work.

  
His mind was too occupied with what had happened and all the things he was trying very hard not to think about because they were not real. Could not be real. Of course, until he came up with another explanation that did not question his own mental state, reality was the only possible conclusion. Clearly, reality was insane.

  
Wrestling his mind away from thoughts of wings and feathers and things that had no place in a rational world (and wasn't it funny that he was the one suddenly advocating rational thought while Sherlock embraced the illogical?), John closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the darkness behind his eyelids. Years in the army had taught him certain tips and tricks about how best to get some much-needed shut-eye in times of stress and he finally succeeded in dozing off.

  
He woke seven hours later and stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. Everything seemed slightly off, as if he were a stranger in a strange place. Apparently, sometime while he slept his brain had decided that this flat was not where he belonged, never mind that he had lived here for months now, and almost a year if you didn't take the official date of his move into account.

  
From the very beginning of their relationship, they had always gone to Mary's place. It wasn't necessarily closer to wherever they happened to be, but John had been reluctant to bring anyone into the flat he had shared with Sherlock, where the proof of their cohabitation lingered in papers and Erlenmeyer flasks and a leather armchair he could not stand anyone to touch, much less sit in.

  
No, Mary's place had been the perfect alternative, neutral ground where John could focus on the here and now without being plagued by memories of a man that had always seemed a bit too real, too vivid to be mere recollections. He had turned a blind eye on them and taken to spending more time in Mary's flat in hopes that this action would somehow cure him of the almost-but-not-quite hallucinations hounding his every step in 221b Baker Street.

  
Now, his refuge had lost its allure and Mary, the one person who had helped him overcome his grief with patience and warmth when he had most needed her to, was gone who knew where, taking with her all the comfort of the home they had built for themselves.

  
Angry with himself for his morose thoughts - as if he could not do a damn thing on his own! - John stepped out of the bathroom, got dressed and walked into the kitchen, where he proceeded to make an angry breakfast. In a way, it was his specialty, having done the very same far more often than he bothered to recollect while living with Sherlock. He all but threw bread into the toaster, slammed cupboards and basically beat the unsuspecting butter onto the hot toast while he waited for the coffee machine to finish its work.

  
Clearly this could not continue.

  
He felt like a stranger and a weirdo in his own home, and his rattled nerves were not at all improved by the lingering fear that Mary might come walking through the door at any moment. Rationally, he knew this possibility to be unlikely. Surely she wouldn't be that bold to come here as if nothing had happened. She had every right to, of course, seeing as it was mostly her flat, but it still seemed wrong. And besides, Mycroft had said he had people out looking for her. Surely they would snatch her off the street for a tense conversation the moment she dared to show her face.

  
Still, John felt on edge staying here. The moment he was done with his breakfast, he went and packed his things. He may not know where exactly he was going to go, but staying here was no longer an option. Having stuffed his possessions into his bag and some cardboard boxes, he decided to leave the dishes undone in a rather immature act of rebellion.

  
After making sure he hadn't left anything important behind, he carried his stuff downstairs and hailed a cab. For a fleeting moment, he considered returning to the bedsit, but there were too many bad memories attached to the place, so he finally gave the cabby Harry's address. If anyone was likely to let him kip on the sofa for a couple of nights while he tried to come up with another place to stay at, it was his sister. A cheap hotel, perhaps.

  
He did not dare think about the one place he actually longed to be.

  
*****

 

Harry was certainly surprised to find John on her doorstep, but when he asked if he could stay for a couple of nights, she immediately offered her sofa and did not ask any questions. Perhaps his exhaustion and reluctance to talk about what had happened were obvious in his expression, but she even helped him carry his things inside, provided him with a blanket and pillow and made them both tea before departing for work.

  
Sometimes, John thought, his sister could be surprisingly tactful.

  
He leaned back on the sofa, stretching out his legs in front of him, and tried to decide what to do next. Obviously he could not stay at Harry's place for long. She may have taken him in without comment, but experience had taught him that they could not spend more than two or three days together without getting into an argument. Frankly, he did not have the patience nor the nerve for that right now.

  
Furthermore, he did not trust himself not to tell Harry about his woes should she corner him later today, and that option was clearly not acceptable. She'd think he had lost his mind, for one. Hell, he himself was half convinced he had lost it.

  
After an hour of going round and round in circles, John was forced to admit defeat. He could not make up his mind without thinking about certain things revealed last night and he could not think about those without having additional information and perhaps confirmation that he wasn't insane.

  
There was only one person he could turn to who might be willing to be honest, simply because all other options had been removed from the equation by last night's events.

  
Sighing, John got up and reached for his jacket. It was time to talk to Sherlock.


	44. Part 9 - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

  
Hailing a cab and giving the familiar address felt better than it had any right to and John sank into the backseat of the cab, watching London pass him by as he tried not to wonder about why that was.

  
Still, his heart gave a happy little jolt as the notorious street came into view and he almost forgot to pay the cabbie in his haste to get to the front door.

  
His old key still fit, sparing him the hassle of having to ring the doorbell and wait for Mrs Hudson to open, who would likely make a fuss and prolong his visit by at least an hour. As much as he liked the landlady, he didn't want to see her right now. Not while there were still so many unanswered questions in his head and her involvement in the entire thing was still unknown to him.

  
The hallway and 221a were quiet, suggesting Mrs Hudson was out for the moment. He took a moment to bask in the familiar sight and smell of the place before drawing his shoulders back and turning towards the stairs. The soft sounds of the violin being played drifted down to his ears and he wondered if he was imagining the anxious, mournful tone of the piece. Perhaps he was extrapolating, projecting his own emotions onto his surroundings.

  
At least the music meant Sherlock was there and unlikely to hear him coming up the stairs, giving him a couple more seconds to gather his wits and try to figure out what he was going to say.

  
However, the stairs were not nearly high enough to allow him enough time to come to a decision and when he stood outside the door - halfway open the way it usually was - he nervously decided just to wing it, then winced at his choice of word. How fitting.

  
Swallowing, he pushed open the door. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?"

  
*****

 

Lestrade woke with a groan and a kink in his neck, opening his eyes to find he had apparently fallen asleep over a heap of files on his desk. He sat up with another groan and rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen his muscles, looking around the office as he did. Bright morning light filtered into the room and his gaze landed on Donovan, slumped on the chair opposite him with a file on her lap, a pen held loosely in her hand.

  
Two cups of stale coffee stood on his desk amidst the piles of paper. He shook his head in confusion, trying to remember falling asleep.

  
"God, I must've been knackered," he muttered, getting up and stretching before moving around his desk to shake Donovan awake.

  
"Wakey-wakey."

  
"Go away," she murmured, not bothering to open her eyes.

  
"Now now, Sally, is that how one talks to one's superior officer?" He couldn't help but smirk down at her.

  
Her eyes flew open and she looked around the office in surprise, appearing as disoriented as he felt. "What the hell?"

  
"Looks like we fell asleep over the case files," he said, gesturing around the room. "Remind me to get a bloody blanket and pillow in here in case this happens again."

  
Donovan stretched, narrowing her eyes as she looked around. "I could swear this isn't where I fell asleep," she muttered. "But I can't for the life of me remember what the hell I did last night."

  
"Paperwork," he said succinctly. "Lots and lots of paperwork. My god, sometimes I really hate our job."

  
She nodded mutely and stood. "Coffee?"

  
"God, yes."

  
Donovan left to get them some much-needed caffeine and Lestrade paced around his office, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess in his brain. He could have sworn he had been in a car. Him and Donovan and Sherlock, the bloody bastard. They had stopped ... somewhere ... and done ... something. He distinctly remembered a blinding white light and then Sherlock's hands reaching for him and then nothing. It was the weirdest dream he had had in some time. Sherlock hated to sit in his car and neither he nor Donovan would willingly spend a prolonged span of time in such small confines together.

  
"I should take a break every now and then," Lestrade muttered to himself. "Otherwise I'll end up with a Burn Out before I hit fifty."

  
*****

 

The rest of the day passed as could be expected - with Donovan's help, Lestrade read through all their notes from the night before, all of them in their own, easily recognisable handwritings, until they were called to the morgue where Molly had just finished the autopsy on the body of the serial killer they had apparently tried to arrest the night before.

  
According to their own reports - and the longer they poured over them, the more they recalled the events described in them - they had cornered the serial killer in an old church following an anonymous tip. The church, as it happened, was the one on the graveyard Sherlock's fake grave was located, a fact they found interesting though unrelated to the case itself. Cornered by the police and with no way out, the murderer - apparently a religious fanatic suffering from strong paranoia - had doused himself in gasoline and lit a match.

  
The autopsy done by Molly had been more for the sake of confirming the man's identity and to reassure the Chief Superintendent that no shots had been fired and the death was definitely self-inflicted.

  
After a quick visit to the morgue to inspect the body, which awakened the recollection of bright flames, burning flesh and screams of agony, both Lestrade and Donovan had decided that the night's events must have messed with their minds, leading to them falling asleep over the paperwork.

  
The only thing no one had quite been able to explain were the burnt remains of a handful of feathers. In the end, they wrote them off as part of some bizarre ritual the deranged man must have performed in the church before their arrival.

  
Lestrade tried to call Sherlock about the case but the bastard had switched off his phone and soon afterwards he received a call from Mycroft, letting him know that his brother was currently not available for any case work and should not be disturbed until he himself chose to make contact. Seeing as he had not been present for the apprehension of the murderer, there was no point in getting his statement anyway.

  
With nothing else to do, Lestrade spent the day drinking coffee and finishing his reports. He still felt a bit hazy on the details, but supposed that watching someone burn themselves to a crisp was reason enough to feel a bit out of sorts. Donovan seemed to be feeling much the same and by mutual agreement they left at precisely 5 pm that day with the intention of catching up on some sleep in their own beds, hopefully without disturbing dreams about things that best belonged in fantasy novels.

  
*****

 

"Sir, the incident report has just been filed."

  
"Thank you, Anthea. Give it here. Let's see what our good Detective Inspector has made of the entire thing." Mycroft held out his hand and accepted the copy of the case file his assistant handed him. His gaze flickered across the page. "Interesting. It appears both he and Sergeant Donovan responded to our influence in much the way I hoped they would. It is quite fascinating, don't you think?"

  
"Sir?"

  
"The way humans manage to close their eyes to what is right in front of them for the sake of clinging to their image of the world they live in," he elaborated.

  
"Yes, sir," Anthea said, sounding unconvinced. He smiled. His assistant never wasted time on wondering about why humans did what they did. Perhaps it was for the best - she was incredibly efficient and he didn't like to think about what would become of that efficiency if she stopped to wonder at what the population in general might be doing or feeling. She had time for that on her days off, after all.

  
"Thank you, my dear." He handed the file back to her with a satisfied nod. "I believe we have done a very good job in covering up this whole affair. Do tell the others that they may expect a pay rise out of this for a task well accomplished."

  
"I shall, sir. Thank you, sir."

  
"That will be all."

  
"Yes, sir."

  
She left him, taking the file with her to be added to their private archives, along with the records giving a far more accurate account of the night's events.

  
Really, Mycroft had to hand it to his brother. Leaving the good DI and his Sergeant unconscious in the car outside the church had been a stroke of genius, putting them in the perfect position to step in as the unwitting heroes of the - entirely fake - tale of what had transpired in the church. He would have to compliment him on his quick thinking on that account later. For now, though, his brother was quite occupied and he had no desire to disturb him. Heaven knew Sherlock deserved some uninterrupted time to set things right with John Watson. It was long overdue.

  
Smiling to himself, Mycroft Holmes settled back in his chair and opened a file on the current situation in North Korea. On days like this, he really quite liked his occupation.


	45. Part 9 - Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

Sherlock almost dropped his violin at the unexpected sound of John's voice behind him. Tightening his grip around the instrument, he whirled around to stare at the man standing in the doorway in surprise. "John!"

  
He had not expected John to come, not really. Well, part of him might have hoped. The same part that was still convinced they could salvage their friendship if given the chance.

  
And yet, John's sudden appearance so soon after last night's events was quite unexpected. He mentally shook his head at himself. He should have known John would not rest until he knew the answers to all the questions in his head.

  
He stared at him, waiting. When no further words were forthcoming, Sherlock decided he would have to speak.

  
"I did not expect you to come."

  
Internally, he winced at how pitiful he sounded. Dejected. Even now, he could not help but wonder how long it would take John to snap and leave again.

  
"Me neither," John said, looking around the room as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself. "I ... what happened last night ..." He trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

  
Sherlock indicated John's armchair, hoping he would take him up on the invitation and take a seat. Much to his relief, John did. Sherlock himself remained standing, too agitated to even consider sitting still. Instead, he carefully placed his violin in its case and closed the lid, making sure to close the clasps as well. One never knew what might happen and the instrument was far too valuable to be destroyed in a scuffle.

  
"You have questions," he said once he had straightened.

  
"Yes."

  
"Ask, then," Sherlock suggested, taking a deep breath. "I promise to answer honestly, where I can."

  
"And where you can't?," John demanded. "Will you lie? How am I supposed to know the difference?"

  
"Where I can't answer honestly is where I don't know the answers myself," Sherlock admitted. "But I promise I will not lie to you."

  
John scoffed, apparently not at all appeased by that. They were both aware it was the only offer Sherlock could make, however, and he waited for John to mull it over. Secretly, he glanced at the clock on the wall. This was already shaping up to be the longest they had spent alone in a room together without violence or raised voices since his return. He didn't dare hope it would stay that way. Best enjoy the calm while it lasted.

  
"What I saw last night," John began, slowly, working his way through what he wanted to ask, "...was that real?"

  
Sherlock blinked. "Yes, of course."

  
John nodded, then abruptly changed the topic. "Tell me why you did it."

  
"Why I did what? There is rather a lot to choose from, John. Do try and be specific."

  
"St. Bart's." His voice was strained. "Why did you jump off of St. Bart's?"

  
Sherlock closed his eyes. Of course they would come back to that. And yet ...he had not expected it to happen so soon. He had thought John would demand answers about the night before, about things that should not exist and events that should not have happened. He really needed to stop thinking he knew what to expect from John. Clearly he never hit the mark.

  
"Moriarty wanted me out of the picture," he began, slowly, letting his mind wander back to that last, terrible case. "I knew he would not stop before I was dead. Mycroft held him captive for some time, fed him fake information about my life, a bunch of lies we had invented together beforehand. He set him free and we sat back to watch him use his knowledge to destroy my reputation."

  
"You set him up?"

  
"It was the only way. We needed information about his network. As Mycroft explained to you, feeding him information about me in turn was the only way to make him talk at all. While he used his knowledge to drag my reputation through the mud and set me up as the perpetrator behind his crimes, sowing doubt in everyone's minds, we anticipated his moves and came up with a plan to stop him for good."

  
John breathed loudly through his nose. "And yet you neither told me about any of that, nor does it explain why stopping him led to you ... doing what you did." He waved his hand, apparently incapable of putting Sherlock's betrayal into words.

  
Sherlock sighed. There was no way around it. "I knew he would attempt to use you against me, so I hatched a plan to anticipate him. A member of my homeless network called you about Mrs Hudson - an easily believable lie that would send you running - and all I had to do was remain unmoved. I knew the truth, there was no reason to worry about her, so I didn't."

  
He saw John's expression darken and held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. "Do not think I liked it. You would not have left my side even if I had asked you to do so, not while the police were out to arrest me. It was the only way and I needed you far away. I would have preferred you not to be anywhere near St. Bart's when it happened, but I needed you to arrive just in time to act as a witness."

  
John swallowed. "You ... you wanted me gone?"

  
"I _needed_ you gone," Sherlock corrected, pacing up and down beside the fireplace as he tried to explain. "The incident at the pool showed that you would try and interfere and I could not allow it to happen. The moment you were gone, I lured Moriarty onto the roof with a text message. Hardly difficult, as he was all too eager to come and meet me. By then I already had a good idea of what he wanted from me - my death. So I chose the perfect setting for him to execute his plan. As it turned out, I was right."

  
"Right about what?," John demanded, sounding slightly breathless.

  
He paused in his movements to turn and stare at him, sitting in his chair where he belonged as if he had never been gone. The memory of that day on the roof was painful even now. "He used you against me. Even when I had sent you away, he had anticipated my attempts to keep you safely out of the way. Not only that, he went farther than I had expected him to."

  
"What did he do?"

  
"There were workmen here that day," Sherlock said. "In this house. One of them had a gun and instructions to kill Mrs Hudson - ironic, considering the lie which I used to get you to leave." He smiled wryly. "There was someone else at Scotland Yard, ready to end Lestrade's life. And, of course, there was a sniper who had you in his sight at all times."

  
"I ... I saw the workman," John stammered. "I came through the door and there he was, with Mrs Hudson, and she asked about you, in perfect health, and I knew what you had done. I turned right around and came back."

  
Sherlock nodded. "You were supposed to. I had hoped you would realise that I needed you to be as far away from me as possible, but I knew you would come and I counted on it. So did Moriarty. When you stepped out of the cab at St. Bart's, the sniper already had his rifle aimed at you."

  
"But nothing happened," John pointed out. "No one's tried to kill me."

  
"They had orders, John!" Agitated, Sherlock resumed his pacing, unable to look his friend in the eye. "Moriarty left specific orders - to kill all three of you, unless I jumped."

  
He hung his head. "He made it clear to me that they would fulfil their orders even if I killed him, that there was nothing I could do to stop them. Stupidly, he let it slip that there was a way for him to call them back. For a moment, I believed I had won. If I could get the code word out of him, you would be safe."

  
He wondered if he was the only one who noticed the way his voice wavered at the memory.

  
"But you didn't?" The question was quiet, barely audible.

  
Sherlock turned to look at him, needing to see John's face and remind himself that he was all right. "Moriarty shoved a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger the moment he realised I had a chance of getting the code out of him. He killed himself and in doing so robbed me of every chance to prevent your death. Well," he smiled sadly, "any but one."

  
*****

 

Silence followed Sherlock's explanation. The detective seemed unwilling or unable to continue and for the time being, John did not know what to say. This, then, was the mystery he had failed to uncover from that day. Moriarty on the roof - dead, now, as it turned out. He should probably be relieved at the knowledge that the world was finally rid of the bastard, but he was too busy mulling over the rest of Sherlock's story.

  
"You could have left," he pointed out. "There was nothing holding you on that roof. He was dead. You could have turned around and gone back the way you came."

  
Sherlock looked at him as if he were insane. "Of course I couldn't."

  
"But-"

  
"You would have died, John!," Sherlock snapped. "Do not delude yourself into thinking that I could have let that happen while it was in my power to prevent it."

  
He looked ... desperate, John thought. Manic. And just a tiny bit insulted, as if the very idea of walking away was an injury to his character. Perhaps it was. John was starting to doubt his perceived knowledge about the man standing in front of him.

  
"So you decided to just throw your life away? You thought I'd somehow like knowing that you killed yourself for me?"

  
"I should have," Sherlock muttered, looking away and biting his lip. "I was prepared to die. I expected to die. To be annihilated, to burn in Hell forever. Or at least long enough to make it feel like forever."

  
"Look at you," John said, shaking his head. "I saw you last night. What has become of you. How can you stand here and tell me you didn't die for me?"

  
Sherlock smiled sadly. "I didn't die that day, John."

  
"But you're ... you have ...." He couldn't say it. Even now, with Sherlock standing right in front of him, solid and real, he couldn't say it.

  
Sherlock turned and walked towards the windows, pulling the curtains closed on both of them, shrouding the room in the dim light of a desk lamp. "You mean those?"

  
The wings blinked into existence where a moment before there had been nothing, and John was glad he was sitting down because to see Sherlock's face as he stood, quite obviously waiting for the screams and the fear and the flight, made it even more real. The wings were huge, larger than John remembered, but maybe that was due to the fact that they were not fully extended inside the sitting room, giving the impression of being too big to fit.

  
"I ... yeah. My god."

  
Sherlock smiled thinly. "Not quite."

  
John shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was not hallucinating. Somehow, the sight of the wings was easier to bear when he did not look at them directly. He focused on Sherlock's face instead.

  
"But you said you don't believe in God."

  
"Of course I don't," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "I don't believe in Mycroft either."

  
"What?"

  
He sighed. "What I mean is, I don't need to believe in something when I already know it exists. You don't believe that water is wet, you know it is. You do not believe that oranges contain lots of vitamin C, you know they do. People only believe things when they do not have imperial evidence to support their theories."

  
John shook his head. "Semantics."

  
"Of course it's semantics," Sherlock snapped. "It's the only way I can tell the truth without either lying or making people aware of what I was. What I am."

  
"No one would ever even think to believe this, even if you told them," John pointed out. Hell, he was sitting right here, with the evidence in front of him, and he had trouble believing what is eyes were telling him. He frowned. "What you were?"

  
"Huh?"

  
"You said, what you _were_. You said you didn't die when you jumped off the roof. I don't remember what exactly you said last night, but even then you mentioned you should have died. So ... what happened?"

  
Sherlock shook his head. "I can't quite explain it. You need to realise ... I didn't die for you. Not precisely. Even now I can see the guilt on your face. You blame yourself for my death, you believe I did it to save you. The truth is ..." He paused, took a deep breath. Suddenly, he looked insecure. "The truth is I died a very long time before you were born. By the time we met, I was at the lowest point of my existence, or as close to it as possible. I was barely myself."

  
John stared at him. "I don't understand."

  
"I fell, John."

  
He shook his head. "Nope, sorry. I still have no clue what that's supposed to mean."

  
Sherlock groaned, swirling around. His wings followed the movement, rushing around the room, and John tried to duck out of the way before they could hit him - but nothing happened. He blinked. The very tip of Sherlock's left wing, looking as solid as the sitting room wall, had simply passed through him. "What the hell?"

  
"It's a dimensional thing," Sherlock muttered. "I can explain another time." He hesitated. "If... if you want me to, of course."

  
Shaking himself out of whatever odd mood had befallen him, he returned to the topic at hand. "My brother and I died a very long time ago. I will spare you the details, but we ended up being presented with a choice - stay in what people down here refer to as Heaven, or return down here with some ... extras. We both found the idea of eternity in Heaven too boring to bear and chose the second option. Everything was fine for a long time, until Raphael and his consorts came along and somehow decided to develop a marked dislike of me. Finally, about a decade ago, they caught me alone and unprepared and, referring to some obscure, questionable law that I had supposedly broken, tore out my wings."

  
He swallowed, looking haunted by the memory of what must have been a rather unpleasant experience.

  
When he spoke again, his voice shook. "You cannot imagine the agony." Or perhaps it was a bit worse than unpleasant. "Imagine having both your arms torn from your body, slowly, excruciatingly, but without the pleasant shock of blood loss to make you pass out, then triple the agony. When I became aware of anything beyond the pain, I found myself on the pavement in one of London's less attractive areas. Luckily for me, Raphael had lost a feather at some point during my ordeal, so I pocketed it for leverage and made my way back to my flat in Montague Street, which is where I lived at the time."

  
He turned his head away. "Days passed and nothing changed. The pain stayed and my wings were gone. That was when I turned to cocaine to help me cope."

  
John stared at him. "Surely it must have healed in time?"

  
"Healed?" His laugh was bitter. "Wounds like that don't heal, John. I was reduced to something as close to human as is possible for my kind to get, mortal in almost every sense but already dead at the same time. You have no concept of what it was like." He shuddered. "The cocaine made it all disappear. It was ... the purest bliss you could possibly imagine. Addiction was the obvious consequence, one I accepted gladly. Anything, if only to escape the constant pain for just a little while."

  
His wings rustled as if to show his distress. "In fact, you may have been tempted to do the same, if there was a drug to make you regain full use of your leg."

  
John wanted to argue, to claim that he would never have done such a thing, but then he recalled the utter desolation and boredom, the feeling of being completely useless. He remembered wanting to put a bullet through his head to end the nothingness. If he hadn't met Sherlock, who knew what would have become of him? No, he could not fault him for that.

  
"Then what?," he asked. "You were clean when we met."

  
Sherlock smiled. "I happened to shoot up in an alley in a rather rich area, just as a wealthy heiress was murdered. The police made a complete mess of it, of course, and the Inspector on the scene was a complete moron. The only one to actually use his brain was a Sergeant who noticed me and offered me cigarettes in exchange for information. I told him I would identify the killer for him and hand him all the evidence he needed for the entire packet." He made a small, dramatic pause. "Lestrade agreed."

  
John gasped. "So that's how you met!" He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "The poor bastard."

  
"I was high as a kite at the time, of course," Sherlock said. "But my deductions were solid and I gave him not only a description of the killer but also a name and a motive. He listened to me, so I made a point of showing up at crime scenes when he was present. I gave him information in exchange for cigarettes. He got promoted soon afterwards, which gave me access to more scenes."

  
"That doesn't explain how you got clean, though. I always thought he made a deal with you," John said, trying to remember his suspicions from those early days. He had spent quite some time obsessing over Sherlock's past as an addict, he knew that. Of course he had wondered how and why he had decided to stop. And why he had started in the first place.

  
"He did," Sherlock confirmed, nodding. "I had a bad day, the pain was worse than ever and the cocaine didn't work as it should have. I took too much. If Lestrade hadn't come by on a whim, or even if he had arrived five minutes later, I might have died for good. Instead, I woke up in hospital two weeks later to find Mycroft at my bedside. They made me a deal - if I turned back to the drugs, I would be cut off the crime scenes permanently." He shrugged. "You know what my mind is like with nothing to do. It was not a difficult deal to agree to."

  
"I'm sure it wasn't half so easy a deal to keep," John muttered. If there was one thing that could not be switched off like a light, it was addiction.

  
"Easier than you might imagine," the detective told him. "As I said, I spent the two weeks following that incident in a coma. My brother, meddling as ever, got the doctors to speed up the process of my withdrawl. By the time I woke, most of the cocaine's effect had already dissipated. I spent about five years working with Lestrade on cases, thoroughly antagonising everyone I met in the process. And then Mike Stamford walked into St. Bart's laboratory with an old friend looking for a flat."

  
He smiled slightly, but John could not help but think that, somehow, Sherlock had managed to leave out a very big part of the story.

  
Something in the other man's face stopped him from demanding further information, however, and he turned his gaze away. There were already more than enough things for him to think about, even without any further revelations thrown into the mix. He had already learned more about Sherlock in the course of this conversation than he had in the weeks and months leading up to it, after all. In some ways, it was more, significantly more, than he had learned in the almost two years they had lived together.

  
"I suppose I should be going then," he muttered. "I'll need some time to think about all this." He returned his attention to Sherlock, only to find him staring at him with an odd look on his face.

  
It was less like Sherlock was staring at him as if he had never seen him before, but rather like he did not expect to see him again and was soaking up the view while he still had the chance.


	46. Part 9 - Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

After John had left, Sherlock stayed in the sitting room, unmoving, for close to half an hour. Even in his wildest, most optimistic hopes he had not expected them to manage an entire conversation without John getting furious with him all over again. He would like to accept the fact that all John's anger had been the result of Raphael's manipulations of his emotions, but there was no way to tell when Raphael's influence had started and how strong it really was. Perhaps this current equilibrium was all due to John's ability to get a grip and stay calm in times of stress.

  
And this conversation had certainly been stressful - too many bad memories of terrible incidents had been dragged to the surface and that didn't even take into consideration the fact that few people reacted well to being confronted with wings sprouting from their associate's backs. It simply didn't happen, not as far as humans were concerned, and he would not have blamed John for running away screaming.

  
He had stayed instead, and remained reasonably calm and composed, which was more than Sherlock could have hoped for.

  
Finally, with a sigh, he made his wings disappear and moved to open the curtains again, allowing the sunlight to filter back into the room to warm his back as he slumped into his armchair. The conversation had drained him in ways he had not expected and he took a while to sit and breathe and try to calm down.

  
He could only hope that John had not noticed how afraid he had been of this conversation, or rather his reactions to said conversation. John, as had always been the case, was the unknown factor in the equation and all of Sherlock's analytical mind was not sufficient to accurately predict the outcome of a situation involving him. It had started with an "amazing", moved on to a poison pill and a bullet, continued with fury where Sherlock expected joy, and finally ended here, where composure met his own fear.

  
Sighing, he glanced around the room, trying to come to terms with the fact that John had really been here. Not only that, but he had talked to him! He had sat in his chair! Sherlock had spent the entire duration of his visit torn between being unable to look at him and incapable of looking away. The very idea that John might not return, might never be here again, had occurred to him several times during their talk and every moment he expected him to just get up and leave.

  
Drawing his knees up to his chest, Sherlock propped his chin on them and wrapped his arms around his legs, staring at John's chair and trying to recall the precise way John had looked sitting there. Perhaps he might never see him in this exact spot ever again.

  
He was torn from his thoughts about an hour later by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He blinked and redirected his gaze to the door - he knew the sound of those steps, knew it very well. But it couldn't be possible. He had just left, what would he be wanting here again so soon? Not that Sherlock minded, of course.

  
"Is this a bad time?," John asked again, endearingly, frustratingly unaware that Sherlock never thought his appearance anything but the best of times no matter what was happening.

  
"Of course not," he said, realising he should probably answer. "What brings you back here so soon?"

  
John looked a bit embarrassed, actually. "I don't know ... I just ... I can't seem to ... Look." He sighed. "This, all of this, is a bit... weird. Crazy. And I need ..." He paused again, shook his head before drawing back his shoulders. "Can I touch them?"

  
"Pardon me?"

  
"Your ... your wings." John sounded as if he might choke on the word. "Can I ... touch them?"

  
It was quite possibly the one thing Sherlock had not expected, which only served to prove how right he had been to think that he clearly didn't know a thing about John Watson.

  
"If you want to," he said, trying to make his voice sound unaffected. _'You can touch anything, John. Touch all of me, all the time, don't ever stop.'_ He had to grit his teeth to keep the words from spilling out. There were lines that even he did not dare to cross. John might not react well to such a statement.

  
"But close the curtains first. I don't want any of the neighbours accidentally seeing."

  
He switched positions from the seat of his armchair to sitting on the back, his feet planted on the worn cushion of the seat. A thought was all it took for his wings to regain shape and solidity and he enjoyed the sensation of warm air on the feathers.

  
"Incredible," John murmured, having turned away from the windows and clearly unaware of having spoken out loud. When Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder, his eyes were fixed on the wings. "How does it work?"

  
"Focus, mostly," Sherlock said, then decided to explain in more detail. "There are many dimensions of perception inaccessible to humans. Just because my wings are not solid or even visible in the reality you can perceive does not render them nonexistent. Go ahead, try and touch them."

  
He waited until John's fingers were almost there, then stripped away one dimension. John's slightly shaking hand passed right through the wing as if it wasn't even there.  
John gasped. "I ... how?"

  
"As I said, focus. If I do not wish them to be solid, they are not. That way, I can allow you to see them even in the smallest confines and they can simply extend through the walls where necessary." He shrugged. "Of course, I would not do that if I didn't know there was no one in the other rooms. People react weirdly to things coming through their walls."

  
That garnered a snort in response. "I can imagine."

  
Slowly, he withdrew his hand. "Doesn't help my mind accept them as real, though."

  
Sherlock smiled. "Try again."

  
"They're the same."

  
"Are they? Try."

  
John did. And gasped again when his fingers struck soft feathers. He jerked back, then reached out again. "So you could make them solid but invisible, or solid and visible, or visible but not solid?"

  
"And of course invisible and not solid," Sherlock confirmed. "That way, they don't get in the way so much and people won't see them. Well, ordinary people. There are more dimensions I have access to. If they are invisible to you, they may still be visible to people with the Sight."

  
"What's that?," John asked, carefully examining the density of the feathers at the tip of his left wing.

  
"People who have a - uh - N-nephil in their family tree," Sherlock stammered, momentarily losing his train of thought as John's hand stroked across the marginal coverts of his wing, his fingertips skimming along the arch. He shuddered, feathers rustling in response.

  
"Sorry."

  
"No, it's fine," Sherlock murmured. "I'm not used to anyone touching them. As I was just saying, most people don't see them and even those with the Sight cannot feel them unless I allow them to. And, of course, they were gone for eight years after I fell."

  
His breath hitched as warm hands returned to the tip of the wing and John attempted to gently bend it this way and that, testing the flexibility.

  
"They feel ..."

  
"Normal?"

  
"Not quite." John shook his head. "More ... velvety? Satiny? I don't know. Softer, somehow."

  
"Softer than feathers," Sherlock said, trying to sound mocking. "It's a good thing this can't go on your blog, you'd have trouble finding the correct expression to describe it."

  
John's hands stilled and for a moment Sherlock thought he had gone too far. He opened his mouth to apologise, but then John snorted again. "True, I guess."

  
He let go and stepped back. "Can you ... I don't know, move them?"

  
Sherlock could and he did, drawing them in and folding them tight to his back. They were still ridiculously huge, of course, jutting upwards from his back by at least another foot, but he had folded them small enough to be only slightly wider than he himself was. Not that the size mattered, of course. It was impossible to get stuck in tight spaces since the wings did not take up any space unless he wished them to.

  
John watched the whole process with interest; he could feel his eyes on him. Slowly, taking his time so John could watch the muscles flex and see the precise sequence of movements, he unfolded his wings again, letting them span out as far as they would go.

  
He sighed in relief.

  
"You like that," John observed. "Moving them."

  
"It's calming," he confirmed, shrugging. "I spent eight years feeling nothing but agony every time I moved, John. Of course I like moving them. They're _there_. I _can_ move them."

  
"And they carry you?"

  
"Not when I first regained them," Sherlock sighed. "Well, they did, once, when I jumped. They reappeared quite suddenly and caught my fall about a metre above the pavement, but just enough to stop me from killing myself. The impact still knocked me out, hence the bloody head. They were too weak from disuse to carry my weight. Circumstances made me end up in Tibet, on the top of a mountain. I tried flying, but they would not work, so I had to walk the entire way down. It took weeks to get them back in shape so they would carry me even over short distances and they are still not back to full form."

  
"So ... you can fly. With those." John sounded like he had a hard time believing it.

  
Sherlock shrugged, his wings jerking with the movement. "Flying is what wings are usually made for, John. Surely you didn't think appendages of this size were merely for show? Admittedly, they are quite handy in that way, but there are limits. I believe I should find them quite annoying if they had no other function but to tell everyone who cares to look that I'm an angel."

  
John sucked in a breath.

  
"What?"

  
"Nothing," John said, breathing out and shaking his head. "It's just ... that's the first time you actually used that word in reference to yourself. Or to anyone, as far as I can tell. I didn't quite expect it, to be honest."

  
"This is who I am. Who I was, for far longer than you have been alive," Sherlock pointed out.

  
"And yet you never told me."

  
"There was nothing to tell, John. What would I have said, hm? _'Oh, and by the way, I was an angel, but I fell and I'm in agony but nevermind that, I'm really quite human now. Make me some tea?'_." He grimaced and shook his head. "And, of course, for obvious reasons I preferred not to think or talk about it at all."

  
John nodded and thankfully dropped the subject. Several moments passed in silence as Sherlock gently flapped his wings, enjoying the rush of air through the feathers and the certain knowledge that he could do this any time he liked. It was a nice way of distracting himself from the constant fear that any moment now, John would get up and leave. He had his answers now, after all. Well, not all of them, but what he didn't know...

  
"You said you were in Tibet," John interrupted his thoughts. "What on earth were you doing in Tibet?"

  
"Mountain climbing," Sherlock said dryly. His shoulders slumped. "Oh well. I didn't actually plan to go to Tibet. After I had ... jumped ... I thought it best to use the information my brother had gathered about Moriarty's network to destroy it once and for all. There were certain deciding factors to help cement my decision, of course. I could not let you know I was still alive - or whatever I am - for fear of anyone else taking notice. It sounds cruel, it was cruel, in a way, but as long as you were seen to be grieving me, they were convinced of my death and therefore left you well alone. So I went to Italy."

  
"Italy?"

  
"Rome, to be exact. I have been there before in the past, I used to live there some years ago, so it was no trouble tracking down the cell of Moriarty's web hiding in a city I knew so well. I had just confronted them when I was called away."

  
He frowned, not sure how best to describe what had happened, not sure how much he could say without sending John running.

  
"Called where? By Mycroft?"

  
"Up," Sherlock said. "Not that that is a very fitting direction, of course. Heaven is not a place you can just drive towards if you know which direction to go. I was called back up for a chat. I believe I was quite impolite. I may have insulted God."

  
John made a noise that sounded caught halfway between a choke, a laugh and a moan. "You ... of course. If anyone did it, it would have to be you."

  
"Indeed." Sherlock allowed a smile to flit across his features. Jokes were good, right? Teasing? That was what friends did. He chose to take it as a good sign. "I emphatically stated my opinion on all that had been happening and the lack of God's involvement in giving me assistance - my innocence in the crime that led to the loss of my wings was obviously known - and stated quite firmly that I wanted to return to Earth as quickly as possible."

  
"That didn't happen?"

  
"In a way, it did. First, I was given a job offer - the one I had signed up for, inadvertently, by jumping. In the back of my mind, I had known it might be a possibility, the only chance I had to survive the fall at all, but obviously it would only work if I jumped with no ulterior motive in mind, so I made a point of not thinking about it. My brother had the same thought and followed a similar approach. It worked well enough, though I believe he would have found a way to help me even if I had managed to kill myself and go to Hell, as all Fallen must when they die."

  
John swallowed and looked about to ask a question, but finally he simply nodded. "Go on."

  
"I told God I would need time to consider the offer. A contract was hammered out, stating that all I needed to accept the job was to find the nearest place of worship and speak the relevant vow. It was a matter of minutes to do so before I came to find you last night. In fact, it is the very reason I was able to find you at all. Be that as it may, the contract was agreed upon and I was sent back to Earth. I woke to find myself on top of a mountain in the Himalaya. Flying was not an option, as I already mentioned, so I walked down towards a Buddhist monastery I remembered from a previous visit many years ago. They took me in and kindly informed me of the current date. Unfortunately, while about an hour had passed in Heaven, more than an entire year had gone by down here."

  
He closed his eyes at the memory, shuddering, before opening them again to focus on John who had returned to his chair and sat, transfixed. "Time does not pass the same way up there as it does here. I might have been gone for a second or a century. There was no way of telling. I knew it could not have been more than sixty years at most, for I would have known had you died while I was gone, so you had to be alive, but I had no way of knowing whether one day had passed or one decade. For a while, I feared you had reached old age already." He shook his head. "In comparison, a year and four months seemed like nothing at all."

  
"So that's why ..."

  
"Why I didn't return sooner, yes." Sherlock nodded. "I left the monastery a couple of days later and travelled to New Delhi and from there to Europe and back home. In my absence, Mycroft had continued my work with the help of his people and there were only a few loose ends left to tie up. I returned home as soon as it was done, eager to return to the life I had left behind." He wondered if his smile looked as pained as it felt. "You know what happened next, of course."

  
"Yeah," John murmured, his voice rough. "God, I was furious. And it wasn't Raphael's fault, either, I don't think. I was just moving on with my life and there you were, completely dismissive of my girlfriend and almost manic in your attempt to pretend nothing had happened."

  
"I could have handled that better," Sherlock allowed.

  
John snorted. "Anything would have been better. But everything after that ... I don't know. I woke up the next day and I was so angry, I can't even describe it. It wasn't terribly rational, but at the time I thought I had every right to be a bit irrational for a change."

  
They fell silent again while Sherlock tried to block out his encroaching memories of those first few days and attempted to sort out his thoughts. Finally, he thought he had some semblance of control over his voice again.

  
"I ... the offer I made you still stands. There are still three days left for you to ... decide. I will not influence you in any way. I did promise not to contact you and I am sorry I had to break that promise last night, but I could not stand by and watch without doing anything to help. I ... as I said, I don't expect you to call or anything. If you haven't made contact by Sunday evening, I'll take that as your answer."

  
He bit his lip, glancing away. To look John in the face right now seemed impossible.

  
"Sherlock ..."

  
"Please," he interrupted. "You came here today because you wanted answers I could provide. Do us both a favour and think about it. If ... if you do choose to terminate our ... acquaintance ... I hope I can trust that you will not reveal anything I just told you to anyone else."

  
"Of course not," John said, sounding affronted. "As if anyone would believe me, anyway."

  
"There's always people who are willing to believe anything," Sherlock pointed out, shrugging. "Just ... think about it. And if you don't want me i-in your life, I will do my best to honour my promise and forget I ever met you."

  
"Is that even possible?," John asked, and Sherlock wondered if it was paranoia that made him imagine the hope in his voice.

  
"I'm reasonably sure it is. I do not actually need to know who you are in order to keep you safe," he explained. "My mere presence on this Earth should be enough, though it would of course complicate things. I don't think constant protection will be necessary, however. Raphael and his people are dealt with and no one else will be stupid enough to try something. Not after learning of what happened to them."

  
John nodded and got up. "I ... okay. I'll ... I'll let you know, all right? I don't want there to be a miscommunication because of a blackout or me being knocked unconscious or anything. I will tell you either way, okay? Unless you hear me give you a definite answer, I don't want you to delete anything at all."

  
The concession was more than Sherlock had dared to hope for, and he nodded, trying to hide his relief. "As you wish."

  
John stared at him long and hard for a moment before turning and leaving. Moments later, the front door closed behind him and Sherlock felt the loneliness of a John-less Baker Street settle in around him once more. He curled up in his chair with his head on the armrest, draped his wings around himself, and tried to sleep to escape the depressing atmosphere.


	47. Part 9 - Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

In the end, making a decision had been laughably easy. Camped out on Harry's sofa with his back aching from the unfortunately placed springs, he had spent hours staring at the dark ceiling of her sitting room and mulling over everything that had happened since he had run into Mike Stamford on that fateful day.

  
However he twisted and turned it, his life had irrevocably changed for the better the day he had met Sherlock Holmes. And even if the time they had spent living together - and even more so the time they had spent apart - had been nine kinds of crazy, he would never trade any of it for an ordinary, boring life.

  
The way Sherlock had looked at him during their last conversation, as if he did not expect to see him again, as if the thought of that possibility pained him ... really, it had made him want to tell him then and there that he wasn't going anywhere. But Sherlock had asked him to think carefully about his decision and he had done that. The result hadn't changed, but every time he thought about it, he had become increasingly sure that Sherlock's words from two years ago were still valid.

  
_"I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

  
And apparently, Sherlock didn't much like the thought of losing the only friendship he had ever cared to cultivate. Well, John could understand that. There probably weren't too many people who would be willing to accept him, even without all the stuff about the wings, which John tried not to think about because it gave him a headache. Perhaps he would get used to the concept someday, but right now he simply wanted to burst into slightly hysterical laughter at the idea that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, had confirmed the existence of God.

  
It was in every way incredible.

  
Still, even though he wanted to jump up from the sofa and take a cab to Baker Street at the earliest possible moment, John decided to take his time. He didn't much like the idea of falling down the stairs and getting a concussion, which would definitely make the whole process unnecessarily complicated.

  
Instead, he got up at nine after a fitful night of tossing and turning and barely being able to sleep at all, made breakfast for himself and Harry as a thank you for her continued hospitability, had a shower, shaved, got dressed, and finally allowed himself to leave the house at noon.

  
The cab ride took almost an hour and they got caught in the typical London traffic, slowing the cab down to a crawl at times. When he finally arrived at Baker Street, it was already quarter to two. One glance at the windows confirmed that the curtains were drawn. No signs of life were either visible or audible and when he walked in, he discovered that Mrs Hudson was once again out. He had a nagging suspicion that Sherlock had arranged for her to be elsewhere so she couldn't interrupt.

  
He took the stairs slowly to hide his eagerness, then rolled his eyes at himself. As if Sherlock wouldn't be able to read him like a book the moment he saw him. Still, he kept his pace steady. The thought of tripping and getting a concussion was still present in his mind.

  
He walked into the sitting room, not sure quite what to expect - and froze.

  
"Sherlock?" The question came out far more tentative than he had intended.

  
He was sitting on the floor with his back to his chair, his knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his legs. On some level, he must have been aware that it was John standing in front of him, for his wings were visible. They curved forward and around him, almost shielding him from view entirely, and only served to add to the image of someone trying very hard to disappear.

  
Finally, when John was just about to approach him and maybe shake his shoulder or something, Sherlock raised his head, the cocoon of his wings parting far enough to allow John a good look at him.

  
"You came." His voice was hoarse, as if he had been screaming for hours. There were deep rings under his eyes.

  
"Yes, of course I came," John said, frowning. "I told you I would."

  
Several seconds passed in silence, the sense of expectation rising.

  
"Well?," Sherlock asked. He sounded wrecked. He locked wrecked, too. He still wore the same clothes he had been in three days ago when John had last talked to him, his shirt now rumpled and trousers dusty. The rings under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept in days and his eyes themselves were sunken in and dull over hollow cheeks. John wondered if he had even moved apart from relocating from his chair to the floor.

  
He sighed. "It was hardly a decision at all, was it?" Shaking his head, he ran a hand through his hair. "There could only be one answer. Of course you knew that."

  
Sherlock stared at him, mute.

  
John smiled ruefully. "The answer's yes."

  
"Yes?," Sherlock rasped.

  
"Of course it's yes! What did you think I was going to say?," John demanded, confused.

  
And Sherlock ... crumbled. There was no other word to describe what was happening to him. His entire body fell in on itself, his wings dropping as if he didn't have the strength to hold them up any longer, and the look on his face ... John had seen family members of murder victims receive terrible news and their expressions had been similar.

  
"Sherlock? Is that okay? I thought ... well, you said ..."

  
"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, sounding hollow. "I had hoped, of course, that you would ..." He shook his head. "It was stupid."

  
"Yeah," John said, relieved to see they were on the same page. "Yeah, I dare say it was."

  
"There's no need to drive your point home," Sherlock informed him coolly, making a visible attempt to draw himself together. He couldn't quite meet his eyes, however, and was blinking much too fast. "I'd like you to leave now, so I can ... can get started."

  
"Started on what?," John asked, confused.

  
"Deleting you."

  
"I ... what? No! Sherlock, _no_! God, that's what I just came to tell you, didn't I?"

  
Apparently, they had not been on the same page at all, and John wanted to smack himself for his stupidity. He should have made himself clearer.

  
Sherlock looked as confused as John felt. "You just said yes!"

  
" _Yes_ , _of course_ I want you to be part of my life!," John yelled at him, desperate to get it out before Sherlock could do anything stupid. God knew how quickly he could delete memories. "How can you _possibly_ have doubted that? After everything we've been through, after everything you've told me, how could you still think I would walk away?"

  
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. "Everyone else would," he pointed out. "And you did it before."

  
"Oh, you mean when I was feeling betrayed and shocked and fucking furious, and later when my emotions were being messed with by an angel? Do you think that's behaviour you should use as a basis for your conclusions regarding my state of mind?"

  
Relief lit up Sherlock's face like a sunrise and John couldn't help but wonder how he had ever thought this man unfeeling. Here he sat, apparently having spent days agonising over the - to his mind - unavoidable fact of John's leaving, and now he looked like he might collapse right alongside his false presumptions.

  
"God, look at you. When was the last time you've eaten anything? Have you at least had some water? This can't be healthy, angel or not."

  
Without even thinking about it, John reached out, grabbed Sherlock's hands and pulled him up from the floor. It was easier than it should have been, but then he saw those great wings give one quick beat and the answer was obvious.

  
"I could've done that on my own," he muttered. "I'm not that weak. The same can't be said about you, though. Good grief, you're barely more than skin and bone. Sit, I'll get us something to eat."

  
He guided Sherlock to the sofa and then searched through the heaps of papers and files on the desk until he found a phone and one of their take-out menus. It was precisely where he had left it when he had moved out months ago. As he ordered his and Sherlock's favourite meals without having to think about it at all, he noticed his friend's eyes on him.

  
John turned, a question already half-formed on his lips, but then he caught Sherlock's gaze and promptly stayed silent.

  
That intense focus he was so used to seeing from his friend was directed solely at him to the exclusion of everything else. Sherlock looked as if he expected John to vanish the moment he blinked and every time he did blink, he seemed surprised at his still being there. The relief in his expression was obvious, stripping years off his face that John now realised had been put there by stress. Stress he had caused, with his misguided anger and his indecision and his inability to face the truth - that life without Sherlock was not worth being called such.

  
He gave him a small smile and went to the kitchen to see if there was anything drinkable in the fridge. Surprisingly, he discovered his favourite beer, three bottles neatly lined up in the door as if they had been waiting for him all along.

  
"Sherlock, did you get me beer?"

  
"I hoped you might surprise me and choose to rekindle our friendship," Sherlock admitted quietly from the sofa. "I bought them in a fit of optimism."

  
"And if my choice had been different?"

  
"I'd have thrown them away, of course," Sherlock said. "Or maybe asked you to take them with you when you left." His voice caught on the last word, reminding John that this outcome had actually been a real possibility to his friend's mind.

  
His friend. It felt good to think of him like that again. And if there was one thing Sherlock had proven beyond a doubt, it was that he did consider John his friend, that he wished him to be his friend. It warmed his heart to know that even after he had behaved like an absolute prick, Sherlock still wanted to have him in his life.

  
Staring down at the beer bottles in the fridge, he could not help but imagine how he would have reacted had he chosen to walk away from all of this. If Sherlock had asked him to take the bottles away, if he had been confronted with the sight of his favourite beer in Sherlock's fridge - such an obvious sign of his hope for a different outcome - would he have changed his mind? He didn't know. But he liked to think he would have, because if Sherlock could be gone for so long and, among all the knowledge in his mind, still remember John's favourite beer, then surely it was a sign that he cared.

  
*****

 

Sitting around waiting for John had been the singularly most terrible experience Sherlock could remember having gone through, including the forceful removal of his wings. The beer had been a spur-of-the-moment idea and he had regretted it almost immediately, but by then the bottles had been in the fridge and he couldn't bear to throw away so obvious a symbol of all his hopes.

  
He had never had much of a liking for alcoholic beverages, but at the moment he was reasonably sure that he would give absolutely anything if only this particular brand of beer would always be found in his fridge.

  
John wasn't even much of a drinker, but a pint in the evening every now and then was all right and they had always stocked some, just in case. To have that little detail back in place was reassuring but also terrifying.

  
In fact, the entire three days since their last conversation had passed in a haze of fear and desperation. He didn't recall anything he had done during the time, but he thought he hadn't moved at all. Sunday morning had ticked away so slowly he had been convinced someone had slowed down time to torture him, and every hour that passed without bringing John to the flat had only increased his anxiety and conviction that he would not come at all.

  
The moment John had said yes, he had stupidly jumped to conclusions, worn down by days of hope and panic. For a terrifying, all-encompassing minute he had lost John.

  
It was not an experience he wished to repeat ever again for as long as he existed.

  
In contrast, his elation to have John back, to have John tell him that walking away had never really been an option, was beyond comparison. He could not believe his luck, frankly, and even if he had, he would have doubted his perception because surely things like that did not happen to him.

  
And yet, there John was, sitting in his armchair and drinking his beer as he waited for the delivery boy to arrive. It seemed too good to be true, so Sherlock made sure to stare at him as much as possible, just in case it had all been a hallucination on his part.

  
He had hidden his wings from view again, unwilling to disturb or distract John with their presence, and leaned back on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. He would have liked to sprawl across the entire piece of furniture, but it would have put him at a weird angle to John and part of him hoped John might be persuaded to join him on the sofa.

  
Perhaps he would get his wish sometime soon, but right now he would be content with what he had, too afraid of a delayed rejection to ask for more. And there was still this one thing he had not even dared to think about in John's presence, the one secret he was still keeping. Confessing it all was too big a risk. John had only just agreed to stay in his life, but no terms had been mentioned yet and Sherlock was unwilling to trust his luck in this matter.

  
No, he would wait until he was sure of where John stood where he was concerned, and then he would find a way to confess it all and pray for the best possible outcome. Or, at the very least, for the very worst outcome to never happen. In a way, he was already well on his way to getting his wish granted. All he wanted was a lifetime spent with John. If John did not suddenly withdraw again, there was a chance he might get it.

  
Sherlock chose to tread carefully and to keep his ridiculous sentiments to himself for as long as possible. John wanted a friendship, so that was what they would have. The strongest, best, most amazing friendship anyone had ever had. And if he found himself wishing for more, well, that was his problem. He would cope.


	48. Part 9 - Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Two days later, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade, asking if he was interested in solving a murder.

  
"Give me a moment," he said, lowered the phone and turned to John, who was making tea in the kitchen. "Lestrade has a case."

  
"Good one?"

  
"Haven't asked about the particulars yet. I thought you might like to come." He tried not to sound too hopeful.

  
John smiled. "Sure, why not? It's been a while. And if we want to get back to the way things were, cases are a must-do."

  
Sherlock tentatively returned the smile. "One never knows. It could be dangerous."

  
He raised the phone back to his ear. "All right, what and where?"

  
"A double homicide in Soho, no signs of a robbery or even a break-in, but the alarm has been blaring loud enough to wake half the neighbours."

  
"What about the other half?"

  
"They were already awake when it started."

  
Sherlock frowned, tilted his head this way and that. "I'm not sure..."

  
"Parts of the bodies were strung up on the chandelier."

  
Ohhh, Lestrade knew how to catch his interest.

  
Sherlock smiled. "We'll be there in half an hour."

  
"All ri- wait, we?" The DI sounded both surprised and hopeful.

  
He felt his smile widen. "I'm bringing John."

  
He hung up and grabbed his coat and scarf, beaming as he saw John tugging on his own jacket, his eyes sparkling with excitement. This, this was what he had been waiting for. What they had both been waiting for.

  
"Good case?"

  
"Body parts on the chandelier."

  
John made a noise that sounded caught between disgust and amusement. "Very good case, then. Let's see if it'll live up to your expectations."

  
He ushered Sherlock out the door with a hand on his back. Sherlock almost missed a step on the stairs as a consequence.

  
*****

  
The crime scene, as it turned out, looked just as promising as Lestrade had made it sound on the phone.

  
The bodies of Mr Lin and his wife had been left disemboweled in their living room, the intestines draped around the chandelier on the ceiling three metres above them and several organs tied to the ends of said intestines like bizarre Christmas baubles.

  
Sherlock was delighted.

  
Everyone else was visibly relieved and astonished at the sight of John walking into the room behind him, which was both gratifying and annoying at the same time. Of course everyone had noticed the break in their friendship, but he had not been aware they had actually hoped for a reconciliation. Still, the thought of all the gossip concerning him and John set his teeth on edge. He ignored them for the sake of aiming right for Lestrade. "Tell me what you know so far."

  
"Mr and Mrs Lin, married for twenty-seven years, no children. They own a chain of shops, well-off with no financial troubles that we could find out about, neighbours describe them as friendly but withdrawn. Looks like they were richer than anyone assumed and discouraged visitors to keep their financial situation a secret to avoid the attention of robbers and the like." He looked around the room and grimaced. "Doesn't look like it was enough."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You already said they hadn't been robbed, so there is no reason to believe their attempts at security were insufficient to keep out whoever did this." He gestured at the bodies behind him. "Now, can you get this crime scene cleared for me or do I need to do it myself?"

  
The idea of Sherlock bullying CSU into leaving made Lestrade shudder and he quickly turned and shooed everyone out who didn't absolutely need to stay, leaving him alone with Sherlock and John while Donovan lingered in the doorway to keep everyone else away.

  
Satisfied, Sherlock whirled and bent over the bodies, examining them carefully from head to toe while listening to Lestrade's conversation with John.

  
"So ... uh... you've sorted things out between the two of you?"

  
"We're working on it," John said. "It's a process and after everything that happened ... well, it will be difficult for a while. But yes, we're working on it, and I think we'll be back to normal before long."

  
Sherlock wondered if it was possible to keel over from sheer relief and spread out his wings - still invisible due to Lestrade's presence - to help him keep his balance as he hunkered over Mrs Lin's hollowed-out abdomen.

  
"Good." Lestrade cleared his throat. "That's, uhm, good. I guess. I'm glad. Your absence served to show just how much better behaved he is with you around. Everyone's kinda relieved, actually."

  
"I noticed," John said, shuffling his feet. "Even Anderson looked like he might smile at me and that has never happened before."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Anderson, moron that he was, had every reason to be glad about John's presence. Otherwise, he might be tempted to shred him to ribbons for all the telling evidence he had missed about this crime scene. It was astonishing how a single person could manage to be so completely oblivious of anything of relevance, yet still manage to keep his job.

  
"You said the Lins had no children?," he asked, examining Mrs Lin's abdomen more closely.

  
"Er, yes," Lestrade replied, apparently having forgotten about his presence during his conversation with John. "No living relatives in the UK, only distant family members in China, as far as we can tell. We haven't gotten around to doing a comprehensive search yet. The bodies were only found a little over an hour before I called you in."

  
Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

  
"You got a theory?," John asked.

  
"Several," Sherlock told him. "But I need to examine the rest of the bodies first." He pointed upwards. "Have you found a ladder anywhere in the house?"

  
"No," Lestrade grumbled. "That's why these are still up there. We haven't yet been able to find a ladder tall enough for anyone to reach the chandelier while standing on it. Beats me how they got that stuff up there."

  
"They brought their own ladder or used one from the house," Sherlock said impatiently. "In either case, the killer or killers chose not to leave it behind. There are clear scruff marks on the carpet, even you lot can't have missed those."

  
"We were a bit busy trying not to stand directly under the chandelier while working the crime scene," Lestrade defended his people. "That stuff drips and no one wants to have blood and gore all over them, thank you very much."

  
Sherlock sighed. "And how are your inquiries after a ladder going?"

  
The DI consulted his phone. "Not as well as one might hope," he said. "I sent people out to ask around the neighbourhood, but the other buildings don't have ceilings that high so none of their ladders suffice."

  
"Very well then," Sherlock muttered. "John?"

  
"Hm?" John turned his attention away from the bloody mess on the floor to look at him.

  
"Give me a lift?"

  
"Couldn't you just ...? Oh, of course not. Why was I even asking." Shaking his head, John marched forward and stood with his feet apart, legs slightly bent at the knees, and formed a cup with his hands. "This good enough?"

  
"Might do to at least allow me a closer look," Sherlock said, grabbing John's shoulders and trying to hide his delight in having an excuse to be so close. Taking off one shoe, he placed his foot in John's hands, propped himself up on his shoulders and pushed himself upwards, spreading his wings and beating them once for extra levity.

  
John grunted in surprise.

  
"Can you keep your balance this way?"

  
"Of course," Sherlock told him, trying and failing not to notice how John's warm breath was mere inches away from his crotch. Not the best moment to be observant. He stretched and flapped his wings once more to keep his balance as he tried to get a closer look at the organs. "It's not close enough," he growled, frustrated. "I need to see them from up close. John, can you lift me higher?"

  
"Not without both of us overbalancing, sorry," John panted, his face scrunched up as he worked to keep Sherlock steady. "You're too tall to be a lightweight, despite the fact that you are definitely far too thin. We're going to Angelo's tonight and you will eat a full meal. I don't care if you have solved the case by then or not, I'll force the food down your throat myself if I have to."

  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, realised John had just promised to have dinner with him, and promptly stayed silent. "If you say so, doctor," he murmured after a while. "Oh, this isn't working! Donovan, close the door, please. And make sure no one comes in for a while."

  
"I can tell them to stay away and lock the door," she suggested. "What are you- oh."

  
"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed, hopping back down and putting his shoe back on while John sighed in relief and straightened.

  
"What's going on? What are you going to do? Sherlock!," Lestrade demanded, annoyed at being left out of the loop.

  
Oh, right, there was that minor detail of an addled memory. Sometimes Mycroft did his job a little too well for Sherlock's liking.

  
"There's no time to explain it all now, I'm sure Donovan can fill you in later. She doesn't know the details, but it'll be enough for you to make sense of what's going on," he said impatiently. "For now, just try not to faint, all right? I really don't want you to mess up the crime scene by falling face-first into it. It looks too promising to be ruined."

  
"What are you-"

  
Lestrade's question was cut off abruptly when Sherlock spread his wings and rose to the ceiling with a single, half-hearted beat. Flapping them rather lazily, he stayed in the air as if standing on firm ground, examining the organs from up close.

  
"Bloody hell!," Lestrade cursed down below, his mind struggling to adjust to the image his eyes were showing him. "What the hell is going on?"

  
"Wrong direction, Lestrade, wrong direction," Sherlock sing-songed, unable to hide his delight at being able to fly. He could feel the strain on his wings, which were still not back to full form, but they would hold him in the air for a while longer. Perhaps a meal tonight would not be an unjustifiable idea. He decided to humour John, then turned his attention back to the scene in front of him.

  
"Just as I thought," he said, examining each organ in turn. "They used the man's and woman's intestines to string up their reproductive organs. Very symbolic, don't you think?"

  
Lestrade's phone beeped and the DI read the text with shaking hands, more for the sake of having something to focus on that wasn't Sherlock hanging underneath the ceiling on huge wings than to actually take in the message.

  
"Judging from the woman's body, I'd say she gave birth at least once, more likely twice."

  
"Yes," Lestrade said weakly. "Just got a text from one of the guys doing the research. Apparently the Lins had a son. He died a year ago in a car accident. No other children."

  
"When did you say they came to England?"

  
"I haven't said that at all," Lestrade sighed. "Fifteen years ago, just about twelve years after their wedding."

  
"Ah, obvious," Sherlock said, nodding. "That confirms my theory on the killer's motivation."

  
"Motivation?"

  
"Revenge," Sherlock told him, dropping down to the ground as easily as if jumping off a chair. He stretched his wings once, then folded them snugly and let them disappear again. Lestrade instantly relaxed now that the world had returned to at least the appearance of normality.

  
"Revenge? Whatever for? You'd think losing their son would have been enough of a punishment already."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not in the eyes of their daughter, no."

  
"Daughter?," Donovan demanded, abandoning her post by the door. "What daughter?"

  
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?," Sherlock asked. "They got married in China, Mrs Lin got pregnant and had a daughter. Due to the one-child policy, they were not allowed to have another child but Mr Lin wished for an heir. They therefore gave their daughter up for adoption and claimed she had died at birth or been stillborn. A while later they had a second child, a boy. I assume their daughter was adopted and eventually started making enquiries after her actual parents. By then, the Lin family had already left China for England and started making a fortune. For a young woman with no real family ties in China, England would be an incredible opportunity to build a life. She followed them here, tracked them down and found out her younger brother had died in a car accident, but her parents were still unwilling to accept her into their home. Clearly she wasn't happy."

  
He gestured around the room. "She might have done well not to cut out her mother's womb - that was a bit too obvious a hint of her motive."

  
Sally looked torn between disgust and fascination. John looked like he wanted to scold him for ridiculing the murderess, and Lestrade looked like he hadn't heard a word Sherlock had said on account of squinting at him as if he expected to see his wings if he tilted his head a certain way.

  
"Oh, do get over it, Lestrade!," Sherlock snapped. "So I'm dead. Obviously it has no impact on my work. Moving on now."

  
"Erm, what?"

  
Sherlock smacked him on the back of the head with his wing. "I said snap out of it."

  
"Ouch! What was that?"

  
"Obviously you don't know annoyance when it hits you over the head," Sherlock sighed. "Just pretend this never happened and we'll all be happier, all right? But next time we have a case with a partially inaccessible crime scene, don't act so surprised and don't bother getting a ladder."

  
He turned and stalked towards the door. "Now find the daughter before she disappears, if she hasn't already. John?"

  
"Coming," John said right behind him. "Don't think I have forgotten about my threat. Case solved or not, you're eating tonight."

  
"As you wish," Sherlock conceded, working hard to hide his happiness at having gotten an entire evening with John out of the deal. He would gladly consume some food in exchange - it was a small price to pay.

  
*****

 

The following week passed in much the same manner and Sherlock felt himself gradually relaxing. John continued to show up at the flat every day before or after work, forced him to eat far more in that single week than he usually would in a month, and asked a number of questions about what precisely Sherlock had been doing during their time apart.

  
They were all questions that could easily be answered and he was happy to do so, glad for any excuse that kept John there and talking to him. As a result, he was more open than he usually would have been.

  
Sherlock quickly noticed he wasn't the only one who was relieved, however.

  
When they returned to the flat after dinner at Angelo's - John following along more out of habit than any actual reason of going there, apparently - they met Mrs Hudson in the hall. The hugs John found himself engulfed in were almost enough to suffocate him and their landlady dabbed at her eyes and made such a fuss over him as if he had either almost drowned or saved her from that same fate.

  
"Oh John, I am so glad to see you back here! It has been terribly dull without you around. The moods this one gets in without you there, well, I don't need to tell you I was quite afraid for my walls." She hugged him tighter. "I assume you're staying the night? Oh, but your bedroom must be a right mess, I haven't been up there to clean it in ages!"

  
Her hands started fluttering as if she wanted to start cleaning immediately and John backed up, looking slightly embarrassed. "Uhm, actually, I'm only staying for an hour at most before going home. I've got work in the morning."

  
Mrs Hudson's face fell. "Oh," she said, clearly disappointed. "Oh well, you two go upstairs and have a good time then. Try not to make too much of a ruckus."

  
John opened his mouth, clearly ready to contradict her, but she had already winked at him and disappeared into her own flat.

  
Now definitely embarrassed and caught off-guard, John turned to look at Sherlock. He tried to pretend he hadn't been staring.

  
"What?," John asked. So he had noticed. Damn.

  
Sherlock shook his head and beckoned him up the stairs. This was not a conversation he was keen on having on the stairs, not when Mrs Hudson was most likely listening on the other side of the door to her flat.

  
To his credit, John followed him upstairs without a moment of hesitation. "She won't give up, eh?," he joked.

  
Sherlock deliberately kept his back to him as he took off his coat so John wouldn't see the hurt flickering across his face. "Mrs Hudson is unlikely to change her opinion once she has made up her mind," he said, then finally turned and hung up his coat and scarf before watching John doing the same.

  
It looked so natural, John's jacket on the hook next to his. It belonged there. It was supposed to be there. Sherlock very much wanted it there. No, scratch that. He didn't care about the bloody jacket. He just wanted _John_ here, with or without the garment.

  
John noticed his stare. "What?"

  
He moved to his leather armchair and tried to sound casual, as if the question wasn't of any consequence. "Are you going to move back in? Eventually, I mean," he hastened to add, thus losing any appearance of casualty.

  
"... I ... uh ... I don't know, actually," John said, surprised.

  
Sherlock nodded, staring down at his shoes. "You could, if you wanted," he said tentatively.

  
"Sherlock..."

  
"I realise we only just started getting back to ... the way it was," Sherlock said quickly. "I just ... how are we going to do that if you live at the other end of London? Also, your sister's sofa is killing your back, I can tell."

  
"How..."

  
He waved a dismissive hand. "The way you move. And you keep glaring at our sofa as if it was to blame, yet you refuse to so much as sit on it." He shrugged, hoping John hadn't noticed his momentary slip into 'our'. "You moved out of the flat you shared with Mary almost immediately after that night in the church and have been camping on your sister's sofa ever since. It's horrible on your back and terribly inconvenient for your work and our ... association. So, are you moving back in?"

  
John stared at him, apparently stunned into silence. "Sherlock..."

  
And oh, how he loved it when John said his name. He fought not to close his eyes in bliss.

  
"... I really don't know if that's a good idea right now."

  
All right, maybe it wasn't quite so blissful. "Oh really? I can't see any drawbacks."

  
John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What if I move back in here and get angry again, hm? What if I randomly decide to strangle you when you least expect me to?"

  
Sherlock chuckled. "And how are you going to kill me, precisely? Considering I've actually been dead for quite some time, I should like to see you try and kill me." He did not add: _'And I'd give anything for you to touch me, even if it was your hands around my neck.'_

  
The truth was, the more time John spent in his presence, the more difficult it got to pretend he was fine with getting the scraps of time John could spare in between working, sleeping, and traveling between Harry's flat, his workplace, and Baker Street. It was an inconvenient arrangement, so John moving back into Baker Street seemed only logical - and highly desirable. The only drawback Sherlock could see was that he would have to fight twice as hard not to let John see just how helplessly lost he was to him.

  
In all honesty, he did not believe he would manage to keep his silence forever. But for now, this would have to be enough.

  
John had no answer to his arguments and Sherlock let the topic drop. He did not want to argue for fear of John doing the very opposite of coming closer to throttle him. If he walked away now, there was a good chance he would not come back. It was a risk Sherlock couldn't take.

  
They spent an hour in peaceful companionship, John watching a weird show on the telly that, as far as Sherlock could tell, did not have any reasonable plotlines and violated several laws of physics. And that was before he realised time travel was involved. Ugh.

  
He could only shake his head at John's preference for such drivel, but before he could voice his opinion out loud, John chuckled quietly at whatever was happening and Sherlock sat, completely mesmerised by the long-missed sight of John's smile and the sound of his laughter. Well, chuckling. Not quite a laugh, but close. It had been so long since Sherlock had heard him do that, he couldn't bring himself to dismiss whatever it was that had caused the sound. Perhaps, if they had progressed to John laughing in his presence, it would only be a small step to John laughing _with_ him.

  
Regrettably, the weird show ended far too soon and John got up. "I should be going now," he said, yawning. "I've got work tomorrow, a full shift."

  
Sherlock nodded and reached for his violin. "Will you come by in the evening?" He tried not to sound too hopeful.

  
"Don't know yet." John shrugged. "Depends on whether or not something comes up at work, I suppose. I'll text you?"

  
Sherlock nodded again. "Have a good night, John."

  
"Good night," John replied, making his way to the door and putting on his jacket. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

  
He couldn't suppress the flutter of hope in his chest this time. "Yes?"

  
"Do try and get some sleep, will you? I know you're technically dead but there's no need to look like a corpse."

  
"So long as I don't smell like one," Sherlock sniffed and adjusted the bow.

  
John chuckled again, and his heart leapt. _He_ was the cause for that sound.

  
And then John stepped closer and deliberately inhaled through his nose.

  
"You smell fine," John told him, apparently completely unaware of what his action and words did to Sherlock. "See you tomorrow evening then, I suppose."

  
He was gone before Sherlock could respond, which was probably for the best. He had a feeling his response might not have been in keeping with his resolution of holding back.

  
He played a short melody until he heard the front door close downstairs, continued playing until he saw John get into a cab and then played until the cab was gone from sight for good measure. The moment he was sure John wouldn't come back because he had forgotten his phone or something equally ridiculous, he returned the violin to its case, strode towards John's armchair, and all but collapsed into it.

  
Tugging his feet up, he curled up on the seat, his shoulders supported by one of the armrests, his legs by the other, and pressed his face into the cushion of the back of the chair. He drew a deep breath, letting John's scent wash over him like a wave. Sleep, John had said. Sherlock could do that for him. And John hadn't said a word about going to bed, so this was a perfectly acceptable compromise.

  
If he couldn't have John's neck to bury his face in, he would take the next best thing. And he wasn't going to apologise for it, either.

  
He fell asleep like that, surrounded by the comforting scent of John, and didn't even wake when Mrs Hudson came up in the morning with a pot of tea and draped a blanket over him.


	49. Part 10 - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos, as always. This is the final part of this story, consisting of 10 chapters and an epilogue. I hope you'll enjoy them!

**Part X**

 

 

_"There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul."_  
_\- Edith Wharton_

  
**Chapter 1**

 

Two weeks passed and neither John nor Sherlock said another word on the topic of moving back into 221b. John because he wasn't sure whether he was ready to do so, and Sherlock because he was afraid of pushing too far. That did not stop John from coming over almost every day.

  
"Got a case?," became the most frequently asked question once he walked through the door and every time he said no, Sherlock feared John would turn around and leave.

  
Instead, he'd shrug and say "All right then" and bully him into breakfast, lunch or dinner - depending on the time of day - and a movie or something equally ridiculous to increase Sherlock's knowledge of popular culture. He suffered through precisely ten minutes and forty-eight seconds of the Great British Bake-Off before threatening to microwave the remote unless John found something else for them to watch.

  
The threat, though serious, made John laugh out loud and he switched off the telly. "Fine, then. Play something on the violin for me, if you want. I'm sure you must've composed a dozen new songs since I last heard you play. ... Sherlock?"

  
"Huh?"

  
"I said, play me something on the violin?"

  
"Oh, right... Of course, if you wish." He tried to marshal his thoughts away from John's laughter and to music. John was right ... he had composed a lot in their time apart. Unfortunately, most of the songs were not suitable for their current situation, too full of longing and yearning and pain to fit the light mood. He thought for a while and decided to play the one he had come up with in the days leading up to their reunion, when he had been full of hope and anticipation.

  
He got up from his chair and pulled his violin from its case, adjusting the strings and raising the instrument to his shoulder. His eyes closed on their own accord as he rested the bow on the strings and began to play.

  
Time and Baker Street slipped away, leaving nothing but the music as he swayed along to the soft, gentle tune, bright notes of hope and joy weaving through the underlying, calmer melody. He forgot all about his audience, about the troubles they were still dealing with, and focused solely on those bright moments of joy when he had known he would see John any moment now. The song expanded as he played, new notes attaching themselves to the composition as if on their own, continuing the story with the first tones of anxiety and anger, confusion and desperation, before achieving a more mournful quality and, finally, returning to the hopeful joy of the beginning, bringing them full circle.

  
When the song ended, he opened his eyes to find himself on the other side of the room, unconsciously having moved around as he played, as he so often did when he was truly lost in the music.

  
He blinked and lowered the violin, slowly turning around to look at John, who was still sitting in his chair. He looked slightly dazed.

  
"That ... was amazing," John breathed.

  
The words, precisely the same he had spoken all those years ago in a cab on their way to a crime scene, had far more of an effect on Sherlock than he would have liked to admit, and his fingers tightened around the bow as he fought to stay in place.

  
"I don't know where that came from," he confessed. "It was much shorter when I first composed it."

  
"It's perfect," John told him. "Really, I can't believe the sounds you pull from a piece of wood and some cat entails."

  
Sherlock shuddered at such a base description. "It's far more than that, John. Music will always be as close to magic as humanity can get."

  
"You've been playing for a long time, haven't you?"

  
He thought about it for a while. The topic of his actual age was something they had only ever skirted. He wasn't quite sure if he dared to be honest about it for fear of scaring John away. Finally, he decided a small piece couldn't hurt.

  
"I watched as Stradivari built his violins - it's a memory I treasure. The way wood and cat entails, as you so aptly described, became instruments capable of producing these sounds ... it was incredible. I had always had a keen ear for music and I liked the fiddles that were common before that, but violins really drew me in. I played the pianoforte, too, of course, but it was never a passion I continued to pursue once I had mastered it."

  
He grinned. "Mycroft can't play an instrument to save his sorry hide."

  
John swallowed. "So... you're saying you were alive before Stradivari made his first violins?"

  
Sherlock nodded. "There's a lot more to the story, of course." He hesitated. "It is late already. Perhaps tomorrow I could tell you more?"

  
He didn't mean for it to sound like a question, but it came out as one anyway.

  
"I'd like to hear more," John said immediately and he relaxed a bit. John frowned. "I just realised ... up to now I never really thought about just how long you might have been... the way you are now." Now it was his turn to hesitate. "You ... you were human once, right?"

  
"Oh yes," Sherlock assured him. "Mycroft and I grew up in a small village, barely more than a collection of simple houses, really. We were executed for being too intelligent." He snorted. "As you know, the experience hasn't had any effect on my attitude towards stupidity."

  
It drew a laugh from John, just as he had hoped it would, but the light mood did not last forever. Instead, John looked gloomy. "To be killed for being clever ..." He shook his head. "God, people are morons, aren't they?"

  
"As I have been telling you from the very start." Sherlock returned to his chair and carefully placed the violin back in its case. He stroked the smooth wood with his index finger. "This is one of the last violins Stradivari made himself. He gave it to me after he had heard me play one of the others in his workshop."

  
The memory was a good one and he smiled, noticing how nice it was to finally share some of his remembrances with someone who wasn't Mycroft. "I spend a lot of time keeping it in its current condition. It is practically invaluable by now."

  
"I did notice you care for it a great deal," John said softly. "I'm glad you had the music, though."

  
He smiled and moved on to another topic. "So, are there any other famous historic people you've met personally?"

  
"Some," Sherlock said evasively, turning underestimation into an art form. "I shall tell you about them some other time, though. I suppose you will be going soon if you want to get home before midnight."

  
A glance at the clock had John cursing and getting up to reach for his jacket. He looked a bit reluctant to leave, which Sherlock took as a good sign. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

  
"Tomorrow," Sherlock confirmed, following him to the door, desperate to wring out every last moment. "When can I expect you?"

  
"Don't know," John said. "I'm off work but it's late so I might be sleeping in. Uh ... say around noon?"

  
"All right."

  
He watched as John started walking down the stairs, then paused and turned back around.

  
Their eyes met.

  
Sherlock tried not to look like he was completely besotted.

  
John smiled. "Have a good night, then. Get some sleep."

  
"I shall," Sherlock promised. "Good night, John."

  
He lingered in the doorway of the flat until the front door downstairs had closed behind John. How much longer would it take? How much longer until John agreed to move back in? And when he did ... how long would he manage to keep his distance? Already he felt his grip on himself slipping, allowing John more and more glimpses of the depth of his feelings. And yet it seemed as if John still had no idea.

  
Sherlock sighed and shuffled into his bedroom, dropping onto the mattress and wondering vaguely whether he would ever see John in here with him. It seemed impossible, but he could not help but hope.

  
*****

  
Unfortunately, their conversation the next day was interrupted before it could even start. Just before noon, Sherlock received a call from Lestrade.

  
"Got something interesting for you. Care to take a look?"

  
"I'll get back to you in a minute," Sherlock told him, hung up and promptly texted John.

 

>   
>  _New case. Interested? - SH_

  
The response came half a minute later.

 

>   
>  _Already on my way. Be there in twenty._

  
Sherlock hit speed dial. "John will be here in twenty minutes and we'll be on our way. Where are you?"

  
He made a mental note of the address and started putting his experiment on hold. The mice livers would probably hold for another day if he put them in the fridge right now, and everything else would be fine on the kitchen table as long as Mrs Hudson didn't contaminate anything. He wrote a note ("DO NOT TOUCH") which he propped against the Bunsen burner, and went into the sitting room to locate his crime scene kit.

  
He pulled on his scarf and coat and hurried down the stairs to wait for John. A quarter of an hour was spent sitting impatiently on the doorstep to 221 as he waited for the cab to pull up. Before John had time to do more than open the door, Sherlock had already reached him.

  
"Budge up."

  
John did and he slid onto the backseat next to him. He gave the new address to the cabbie and leaned back in his seat.

  
"So?," John asked. "What is it?"

  
"They found the body in the Thames but it seems he didn't actually die there. According to Lestrade, the body showed signs of having been frozen."

  
John glanced out of the window. "I know what they say about British weather but it's April. Not nearly cold enough to freeze to death."

  
"Certainly not, no," Sherlock agreed, smiling. "That leaves two options - either the victim was killed and kept frozen for some time to cover up the crime, or he was killed using an industrial freezer. Either possibility allows for a lot of interesting details and I'm quite curious to see how he got from wherever he was to the Thames."

  
*****

  
Three hours later, after a detailed examination of the body - a private investigator, of all people -, the place where the poor sod had been found and a quick internet search, Sherlock and John had gotten rid of Lestrade and his men and were hot on the heels of a butcher. They had chased him into one of the big warehouses along the river and were currently looking for him in the maze of crates and rooms. Sherlock was unwilling to split up, preferring to keep John close, and apparently John was equally reluctant to let him out of his sight, so they progressed slowly down the rows of crates and containers, pausing frequently to open doors and look into the rooms behind them.

  
They had come about halfway through the hall when a shot rang out. The bullet whizzed past them, close enough for them to hear the whistle of the air.

  
"In here!," John commanded, grabbing Sherlock by the arm with one hand and pulling open the closest door with the other. They stumbled inside just as a second shot rang out.

  
"Where the hell did he get a gun?," John demanded, pulling the door closed behind them.

  
"Must've been hiding it somewhere around here," Sherlock muttered, too distracted by the way John's chest moved as he breathed heavily to notice their surroundings.

  
A moment later, there was the sound of a bolt scraping across iron and the click of a lock.

  
"Guess he got us good," John cursed. "Bloody hell."

  
"Not quite," Sherlock groaned. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

  
"What, heaven?"

  
"Ice."

  
John looked around the freezer they had been locked in. "Oh shit." The room was empty, no meat or whole animal carcasses to be seen on the gleaming metal hooks. "Well, at least it's not in use right now."

  
As if on cue, there was a deep humming noise and the air vents started spinning, releasing cold air into the room.

  
"So much for that," Sherlock sighed. "I suppose that is demonstration enough of how the investigator was killed."

  
John cursed again. "Can't you get us out?"

  
"I'm not Superman."

  
His response garnered a surprised look from John. "How is it possible that you do not know Doctor Who but know who Superman is?"

  
"I happened to be in the US when the first comic came out," Sherlock sighed. "There was no escaping it. Anyway, I'm afraid we are stuck in here until someone gets us out."

  
"Or until we freeze to death," John pointed out gloomily.

  
"I won't let you freeze to death."

  
"You just said you can't get us out, Sherlock. If you can't stop the vents, there's nothing much you can do to keep us from freezing. Wait, _can_ you even freeze?"

  
"Remember when I told you I was in Italy when I got called up?"

  
"Yes...?"

  
Sherlock sighed. "I was dressed for a Mediterranean climate. When I was sent back down, I ended up on top of a mountain in the Himalaya. Let me tell you, the Himalaya is a very cold place to find yourself lying in the snow in when you're wearing thin trousers and a short-sleeved shirt."

  
John shuddered. "Oh god. Well, at least you didn't freeze. That still leaves me, though."

  
"I told you, I won't let you die in here. Or at all, come to think of that."

  
"And what are you planning to do? Every survival trick about bearing the cold won't be of much help once temperatures in here drop too far."

  
"You forget who I am."

  
"Believe me, I couldn't forget you're an angel even if I wanted to."

  
"I'm not merely an angel, though," Sherlock reminded him softly. "I'm a Guardian. Yours, to be precise."

  
John blinked. "Come again?"

  
"Weren't you listening in the church? The moment I chose to sacrifice myself for you, I basically applied for the job. I'm your Guardian and no one else's. Really, it wasn't that long ago, how can you have forgotten already? Mycroft's mood was quite literally icy and I didn't let you freeze then, either, did I?"

  
"Yeah, sorry for not paying attention to that," John said sarcastically. "I was a bit distracted by the wings sprouting from your back."

  
"The limits of human attention spans are incredible." Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh. "Come here."

  
"Why?"

  
"So we can strip and share body heat," Sherlock told him, aiming for an equal level of sarcasm John had managed. He didn't quite succeed, too distracted by the thought of John stripping. "So you're within range of my wings, of course. I can't keep you warm from halfway across the room."

  
John turned his back on the vents, shivering as the cold air hit the back of his neck, and approached him warily. "And now?"

  
Reaching out and grabbing the lapels of his jacket, Sherlock pulled him closer. "Now," he said calmly, "I'll show you what these wings are good for, besides flying."

  
They winked into existence as if they had been there the entire time, which was the case. Theoretically, they would work just as well if he kept them invisible, but he wanted John to see what he was doing to make him understand. Carefully, he bent them forward, allowing them to curve around his shoulders and encircle John. The tips brushed the back of his head and his shoulders, making John jerk in surprise, before settling around him. Almost immediately, the air within the small circle started to warm.

  
"How do you do that?," John asked, his eyes widening as his breath failed to become visible.

  
Sherlock shrugged. "They're like a force field, if you will. My job is to keep you safe by whatever means necessary. If that means producing warmth to keep you from freezing, I can do so within a limited space. If you will remember, I moved them to either side of you in the church as well to keep you warm. Mycroft didn't make it half as cold as this, though, so having you shielded from three sides was enough."

  
"Yeah, how did Mycroft do that?," John asked, tilting his head back a little to look him in the face. "The others seemed more scared of him than of you."

  
He rolled his eyes. "That's because my dear brother worked his way up the ranks," he explained. "To put it in human terms, he's an Archangel. You don't get too many of those and they're notoriously dangerous to mess with. To balance their power, there are greater restrictions on when they are allowed to use it, of course."

  
John nodded. "Let me guess ... he's not allowed to use his power to interfere in human politics?"

  
"Exactly. He may use his other skills, however. The Archangels serve as enforcers, if you will. Our own legal system. If a major crime is committed by any of us, they are the ones who are judge, jury and executioner all in one. The fact that Raphael had killed several Nephilim is what made Mycroft's intervention possible in the first place. In many ways, it is the worst crime any of our kind could possibly commit."

  
He shuddered, recalling the disbelief in his brother's voice as he had informed him of the victims' identities.

  
"So let me get this straight," John said quietly. "We'll have to stand here until someone gets us out?"

  
"We could sit, if you want to," Sherlock suggested. "But yes."

  
"I think I'm good standing for a little while longer," John decided. It was nice to hear - standing meant much closer proximity and Sherlock rather enjoyed feeling each of John's exhales on his skin.

  
"We've got quite a bit of free time at our hands, though."

  
"Indeed," he agreed, wondering if John was thinking the same thing he was.

  
Blue eyes were sparkling with curiosity. "Tell me about your life."


	50. Part 10 - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your fantastic response to the last chapters, you guys made my week!

**Chapter 2**

 

The fact that he had been waiting for that question didn't make hearing it any easier. He had known it would happen sooner or later, of course, but he had secretly hoped to get a little more time. Say, a year or two. Just until he was sure John was emotionally invested enough to not just up and leave the moment he realised just how much Sherlock had been holding out on him.

  
"What do you wish to know?," he asked. "And are you sure you actually do want to know? I will answer, of course, but there are things you may not want to hear, regardless of your curiosity."

  
John rolled his eyes. "I want to know everything you're willing to tell me. Let's start with something easy. When were you born?"

  
Sherlock snorted. "An easy question, you say. We'll see about that. What do you think?"

  
John glared at him.

  
"No really," Sherlock said. "I insist. Guess."

  
"Uh... four hundred years ago?"

  
He almost laughed. "Try again."

  
"Six hundred?"

  
"Next try."

  
John looked slightly nervous now. "Am I making you too old or...?"

  
"Too young."

  
"Okay. All right. Er ... a thousand?"

  
"Not really."

  
"Fine, was it before Nero burnt Rome?"

  
That was quite a big time jump.

  
Sherlock decided to be honest. "Quite. And it wasn't actually him that did it."

  
John glared at him again.

  
He gave in. "Very well. I was born in the year 324 ..."

  
John's gasp interrupted him. "That's after Rome burned down!"

  
"I wasn't finished," Sherlock sighed. "324 ... before Christ."

  
He waited.

  
John stared. And stared. And appeared to do some quick mathematics. "So you're saying you're ..."

  
"Two thousand three hundred and thirty-eight years old? Yes."

  
Several seconds passed in which John tried to wrap his mind around that fact.

  
When he did not speak again, Sherlock decided some additional information may be necessary. "When I was born, Rome was little more than a small market town. We lived about thirty miles south of it - at that time, an almost insurmountable distance, as I am sure you can guess. People rarely ventured farther than the next village, if at all. Some of our neighbours never strayed out of viewing distance of the village."

  
John shook his head. "You know, I'm not sure I believe you."

  
Sherlock shrugged. "I told you you wouldn't want to hear the truth," he pointed out. "I am fluent in Ancient Latin, several local dialects, and every version of Modern Latin that came up ever since. Languages keep evolving, it is beneficial to keep up to date on the latest developments. I lived in Rome at least for a couple of months every hundred years or so to make sure I kept a good grasp on the language. Latin has since become a dead language, as you well know."

  
"Every hundred years or so," John repeated, slowly shaking his head and staring at Sherlock as if he had never seen him before. "Incredible."

  
He didn't reply, waiting instead for John to ask his next question - provided he felt up to it.

  
At length, John did. "You said last night that you and Mycroft were executed for being too intelligent," he said slowly. "I assume people were scared of the things you said and knew?"

  
"Yes."

  
"How ...?"

  
Sherlock swallowed, biting back the bitter memories. "We were dragged out of our beds during a general uprising in the village and stoned to death."

  
Even now, the memory made a shiver run down his spine and he closed his eyes. "I will never forget that, for as long as I exist."

  
Suddenly, there was a warm, rough hand cupping his cheek. His eyes snapped open, staring at John's face. It was full of grief and anger. "I'm sorry."

  
"It wasn't your fault," he pointed out. "There was nothing you could have done. I was twenty-seven when it happened and quite fed up with life in our village."

  
John opened his mouth but Sherlock continued, not giving him a chance to speak. "I look a bit older, I know. Life was hard back then, less forgiving. And I can age, if I wish to. Or at least pretend to do so."

  
"Really?"

  
"Of course. It allows us to stay in the same place for longer. We age along with everyone else. We just happen to outlive all our friends and acquaintances until no one is left who remembers us. And then we disappear, move on to a different place, young again, and repeat the entire process." He lowered his head. "It is a rather lonely life."

  
"I'll say," John muttered. "So ... every fifty or sixty years or so ... everyone you know dies?"

  
"The time span increased as people got a better grasp of science and medicine and life became less of a hazard, but generally speaking, yes. After a while, I decided making close friends wasn't worth the effort."

  
"But ... there must have been people you liked," John protested. "I just ... over two thousand years. Good god, Sherlock, there must have been _someone_!"

  
"There were," he admitted, smiling sadly. "I made friends of course. And every now and then I would meet someone and think I had finally found my match."

  
At John's confused look, he took a deep breath and decided to go all in. "What you need to understand is that the human idea of a perfect match, of a soulmate, is not nearly as far-fetched as some people will have you believe. We have a lot of theories as to how it happens but none are certain and none are proven."

  
John swallowed. "Such as?"

  
"By far the most popular, the most logical one, is that souls come in pairs in some kind of space, or dimension, before we are born," Sherlock explained. It was a theory he had never once told a human about and he struggled to find terms John would understand. "Basically, imagine an ocean of souls. Two, or sometimes several, of them would connect, form a bond of sorts, and be torn apart when one of them was connected to a newly-formed body. During your human life, you would have no recollection of that bond or any time before your birth, of course, but the other soul's name would remain written all over yours, and vice versa."

  
"That sounds a bit chaotic, actually," John murmured. "How would you ever find the right one?"

  
"It is a matter of chance," Sherlock told him. "For humans, that is. Sometimes, two connected souls are born around the same time. Sometimes, they even find each other in their lifetime. It is very rare, but not unheard of. As for the others... the first one will of course die first and, if they end up in Heaven or as an angel, simply wait for their other half to find their way to them. Once that second soul's life on Earth ends and they die, the other will feel it and they are able to locate each other. That, at least, is a known fact."

  
"So somewhere out there ..."

  
"... is someone perfectly suited to everyone," Sherlock confirmed. "They may come in the shape of a family member, a friend, and often a lover."

  
"But you haven't found...?" John broke off, embarrassed.

  
Sherlock sighed, aware of the slippery slope they had found themselves on. "When Mycroft and I died, we became aware of the concept of soulmates. We were both firstborns, so to speak, so we were resigned to wait. My brother chose to wait until his other half has lived their life and died."

  
"And-" John paused, licked his lips. "And you?"

  
He wondered if his smile was half as sad as it felt. "I did not want to sit around and wait. I wanted to find whoever it was while they were still alive." He shook his head. "I've been searching for as long as I can remember. People die all the time, but I never once felt anything out of the ordinary, so I always knew the one I'm looking for hadn't been born yet or was still alive. I'm ... I'm determined to find them and share their human life for as long as it may last. I want to... to be there, in whatever capacity I'm allowed. To watch their character form and develop, to see the life in their eyes. I- I want a lifetime."

  
He snapped his mouth shut before any more words could spill out and ruin everything.

  
John stared at him, stunned.

  
"So... so all those years ... you've been looking for one specific soul among the entire world's population?"

  
Sherlock smiled sadly. "Yes."

  
*****

  
John stared at him, reeling. The pure _longing_ in Sherlock's voice as he spoke about finding his soulmate and spending a lifetime with them had cut him to the core. His first, irrational reaction, was disappointment. He tried to shake it off. Of all the strange fancies to entertain, this one was simply too much to consider. And surely Sherlock would have said something already.

  
His second reaction was to want to help. Everyone deserved love, and even if his recent shot at it with Mary had clearly fallen flat, he would do anything to make sure that Sherlock would not suffer the same fate.

  
He licked his lips. "Is there nothing to indicate when you've found the right one?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "I could look at a person's soul, if I wished," he said carefully, apparently worried how John would react to this latest revelation. "If it is the wrong soul, however, it will react rather violently to a stranger gazing at it. The resulting rejection is visceral and painful and it takes about two or three days to recover from it. Not something I could try on the populace in general."

  
"So you've tried, then." It was a statement but John had half a dozen questions piling up behind it, just waiting to come bursting forward.

  
"Several times. There were instances when I thought I had found the right person."

  
"How did you know?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "They'd have to be someone who didn't despise me on sight, or form a dislike against me, of course. In general, I moved around a lot and made friends and watched out for people I grew particularly attached to."

  
"People you loved?" John was aware of his voice brimming with curiousity but he couldn't help himself. This was the first time Sherlock had ever spoken about his own history in this area and he would be lying if he said he wasn't eager for more information.

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you want to phrase it that way. I did tell you, it's all transport. Once I was resolved to find that one specific soul I'm meant for, I knew no one else would ever serve as a substitute. There is nothing I wish to experience with anyone I'm not meant to share my existence with."

  
By now, John was gaping at him. "Two thousand years," he said slowly. "And you've never...?"

  
"Never," Sherlock confirmed, shrugging. "I can be very patient if I want to be."

  
"Sounds rather obsessive to me," John countered. Two thousand years without sex. Christ, he couldn't even imagine it. "How about before you died?"

  
Sherlock scoffed. "I just told you I got stoned to death because people were afraid of my intellect. Do you really think anyone cared to get to know me well enough to actually desire me in their bed? And those who did so when they first saw me quickly got discouraged by my charming personality." He grimaced.

  
John snorted but all he really felt was sadness for the man Sherlock had been, and anger at the people who had so carelessly killed him before his time. "It sounds like a ridiculously unfair system."

  
"In many ways, it is," Sherlock agreed. "But I am led to believe the reward will be rather substantial."

  
"How do you know?"

  
He smiled. "There's talk, of course. Those lucky enough to have found their mate are constantly asked about it."

  
"So what's it like, then, finding your other half?"

  
Sherlock thought about that for a bit before answering, perhaps trying to find an explanation that would make sense to John.

  
"Imagine having a compass, but there's no magnetic field for it to align itself to. So the needle spins around and around and around, never stopping, never able to settle on any direction. And then, suddenly, it stops. The field is there and for the first time in your life, you know where you are supposed to go. And when you do, it feels as if you have always known. It's as easy as navigating your own home and you wonder how you could not have known before."

  
John thought that sounded rather poetic. An idea occured to him. "Has Mycroft...?"

  
Sherlock barked a laugh. "Oh please. You've seen my brother. Does he look like someone who's stupidly besotted with anyone? No. He and I are both cursed with an unusually long waiting period."

  
"Fair enough," John relented. He thought for a bit. "But you have met people who ... found their soulmate?"

  
"Oh yes," Sherlock agreed. "So have you, in fact."

  
"I have?"

  
"Irene Adler."

  
John chocked and sputtered. "I-Irene?! Who...?"

  
"Kate, of course," Sherlock sighed. "I was made to understand they lead a very open relationship, but neither would ever consider leaving the other. It is quite an interesting dynamic. Many soulmates even prefer to simply be close friends, it is not uncommon at all. There are other, more traditional couples, of course, but I rarely see them."

  
John nodded in understanding. "It must be painful, seeing others with everything you're still waiting for."

  
"Excruciating," Sherlock corrected and there it was again, that thinly veiled longing. "After my last failed attempt at soulgazing, I chose to stop looking."

  
"When was that?" John wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear the answer. If Sherlock confessed to having tried looking at his soul and found it ... unsuitable ... he really didn't want to know.

  
"Approximately two hundred years ago. I met someone at university who seemed almost ridiculously suitable."

  
"What happened? Unless you don't want to tell me, of course," John said hurriedly. He couldn't decide if he was relieved it had been that long. Somewhere in his brain, a spark of jealousy over this long-dead person ignited. "I don't want to pry."

  
"It was a long time ago," Sherlock pointed out. "We shared quarters on campus for a year. His name was Victor Trevor and he was ... well, rather attracted to me." He sighed. "The sentiment was mutual, but I could not bring myself to act on something that was not only highly illegal at the time but that also went against my decision to ... wait. So one night when he was asleep I tried."

  
He looked away, clearly unwilling to meet John's eyes. The agony on his face was plain enough. "I spent three days in bed with a cool washcloth covering my eyes. When he asked about it, I claimed a vicious headache. The moment I got better, I realised that staying in his vicinity had become unbearable. I left university and fled halfway across England with a short goodbye and barely an explanation."

  
He shifted, wrapping his wings tighter around John. It was a a nice sensation and John struggled to hide a smile, though he did wonder at the increased closeness.

  
"Sherlock?"

  
"Sorry. It's easier if the space I need to keep warm is as small as possible," he explained.

  
Presented with such a useful excuse, John promptly shuffled closer, his chest almost brushing against Sherlock's now. He felt the dangerous, ridiculous urge to bury his face against Sherlock's throat. With the way John was huddled into the depths of his own jacket, he was actually short enough to accomplish that without Sherlock having to stretch, but he held back. There were lines he didn't dare to cross, particularly considering what the topic of conversation had been just now.

  
"I can't believe you spent over two thousand years on this Earth and never once felt the urge to sleep with anyone," John told him, both amused and incredulous. It was time to get this conversation back to a less serious tone. "Be honest ... not even a kiss?"

  
"None," Sherlock sighed. Something about the topic seemed to exasperate him. "And I didn't say I never wanted to. I merely refrained from giving in to a fleeting fancy."

  
"So you and Victor ...?"

  
Sherlock smirked. "You take an unhealthy interest in my love life, John. Or lack thereof. Really, what is it you find so incredibly fascinating about it?"

  
John blushed and lowered his eyes to Sherlock's scarf. With the way he had treated Sherlock since his return, he could hardly admit that, now that they were talking again, all his old feelings were resurfacing faster than he felt comfortable with. "Nothing. It's just ... I never thought you were interested in anyone, and suddenly there you are, confessing to a whole string of people you - for lack of a better word - were in love with."

  
"Even if I did not find the right person, surely you didn't think even I would manage to go for so long without at least developing some semblance of sentiment for a handful of people?"

  
"I don't even know what to think anymore," John grumbled, annoyed with himself. _'Be a bit more blatant about it, Watson, why don't you? It's only a matter of time until he picks up on it.'_

  
"People rarely think at all," Sherlock pointed out. "To get back to your question about Victor, though ... There were moments when I was sure he would approach me. When he gave in and tried, we were interrupted before he could become too transparent in his behaviour, which was probably for the best. I'm honestly not sure I could have held on to my resolve had he actually tried to seduce me."

  
"What about those before Victor, then? Were they always ... men?"

  
He snorted. "Of course not. Really, John. It's hard enough to find someone who's company I can bear without excluding half the population on account of their gender." He frowned, thinking of all the people who had been and still were discriminated against because of their sexual orientation. "However, I do confess I would be content to keep to a friendship if my soulmate was a woman. But that is merely a personal preference. That aside, if you could find the one person who was a perfect match for you, who was literally created for you, why on earth would anyone care about what package they came in? It's tremendously stupid."

  
"Huh," John said. "I guess that's true. I hadn't thought of it like that before."

  
"Few people do," Sherlock said, shrugging. "But times have changed a lot over the course of my existence. It is at least a possibility that humanity will eventually come to understand and accept this very basic idea. They used to, before religious denominations became too powerful and started setting up their own conceited rules based on their frankly astonishing ideas of right and wrong. Incidentally, most of those rules were based on what suited their interests best at any given moment."

  
"I'm getting a feeling you don't really like the Church," John joked.

  
"I'd like to have a very long conversation with several religious leaders," Sherlock admitted. "There might be a lot of shouting on my part."

  
He flexed his wings and John felt a cold breeze brush past him. He looked past Sherlock's shoulder. Ice was forming on the walls and a thin layer of frost coated his shoulders and the outsides of his wings. He wrapped them tighter around John, all but hugging him to his body. "I do hope Lestrade will find us soon. I texted him before we entered the building."

  
John laughed and tried not to enjoy their proximity too much. "Of course you did, you bloody bastard. Did you enjoy letting me think we'd die in here?"

  
"If you thought that, you have no one to blame but yourself," Sherlock said haughtily. "I'm already dead and as long as I'm here, you cannot freeze even if you tried."

  
"It is rather warm," John confirmed, slumping against him with a sigh. "How do you do it?"

  
"I don't think I could properly explain it if I tried. Basically, our own body temperature is caught in the circle formed by my wings and amplified by them to keep us from freezing. My back is rather cold at the moment, but since even extreme temperatures will only ever be uncomfortable to me instead of truly damaging, I don't really mind and can focus on keeping you in a warm bubble of air. There's more to it, but I don't think there are terms in any human language suitable to help me explain."

  
"I think I get it," John murmured, yawning. "'s rather nice, though. Warm."

  
He stayed slumped against him, his cheek resting against Sherlock's chest, each of his exhales brushing against Sherlock's scarf, making one edge of the wool flutter gently. To his pleased surprise, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as well, pulling him closer and offering additional support so he wouldn't have to rest all his weight on his own legs.

  
They stayed like that, silent and unmoving, until the door was pulled open and Lestrade stuck his head into the room.

  
"Bloody hell! Are you alright?" He tried and failed not to stare at the unexpected image he was presented with.

  
"You know," Sherlock said, stubbornly keeping his wings precisely as they were, "you could have hurried up a bit."


	51. Part 10 - Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

The door fell closed behind him and John took a deep breath through his nose, slumping against the firm wood. That had been one hell of an experience and his mind was still reeling.

  
He had no idea how long they had been locked in that freezer precisely, but he hadn't felt cold at all until Lestrade had opened the door for them and Sherlock had pulled back so they could leave. The cold air hitting him had been a shocking contrast to the comfortable warmth he had previously been encased in, and a shiver raced down his spine just remembering it.

  
But it was not the experience of being locked in a freezer with Sherlock that made him feel weak and a bit wobbly. Rather, it was the many things he had learned about Sherlock.

  
His actual age had come as a shock, though John supposed he should have suspected. Why else would Sherlock be so reluctant to admit it unless he thought it would be a nasty surprise? And certainly the knowledge that, to Sherlock, John's own life must have passed in the blink of an eye was disturbing. It did, however, fit with his professed relief when he had found out that 'only' a little over a year had passed while he had been arguing with God - which was yet another thing John didn't want to think about too much. Ignorance was bliss.

  
What had really thrown him, however, was Sherlock's admittance that he had spent his entire life searching for one specific person without ever finding them. The loneliness he had confessed to feeling as everyone around him died so soon after he had met them - and surely decades were nothing to someone who had thousands of years to look back on - was something John couldn't even begin to relate to.

  
Yet he was sure there was something Sherlock wasn't telling him. He had said he had given up his search, and certainly the chances of finding one specific person among a constantly changing population of seven billion people was practically impossible. But John thought there was more to it than that and he wished Sherlock would tell him whatever it was.

  
Maybe, he thought, Sherlock had decided to give up and wait, the same way his brother apparently did, but that didn't seem to fit in with the almost desperate longing written all over his face as he explained he wanted a lifetime.

  
John sighed. There had been instances, before the Fall, when he had wondered about Sherlock and his apparent lack of interest in anyone of either sex. Now, it appeared Sherlock simply didn't care about a person's gender as long as they fit in with the general idea of who he was looking for. John could understand that, if he wrangled his mind away from pure lust and took everything else into account as well. Of course it would be amazing to have someone who was actually meant for you. For a while, he had thought that person was Mary, but if anything had become clear in this whole mess, it was that he had been wrong about that.

  
Which left him with a distinct impression of hopelessness that he could not help but wonder if Sherlock felt as well. If there was no way of finding whoever he was supposed to be with until after he was already dead, why bother now? Perhaps Sherlock had made the right decision in choosing not to let anyone get too close unless he was certain they were meant to be. It would certainly save him a world of pain upon separation, even if his resolve apparently hadn't been enough to keep him from forming emotional attachments to people.

  
And that in itself was something John hadn't expected him to admit. If Sherlock was actually capable of not only getting attached to, but actually loving people - something he had not protested earlier - then where did that leave them?

  
On their way out of the building, he had turned to Sherlock with one last question in mind. "So ... if you found your ... your soulmate, you'd just drop everything and run to be with them?"

  
Sherlock had looked at him as if he were stupid. "Of course," he had said, the look in his eyes intense. "I'd do absolutely anything for my soulmate."

  
And John just knew what that meant - one day, he might not be able to reach Sherlock anymore, only to find out later via Mycroft that he had gone off to God knew where to find the one person he was meant to be with. And in doing so, he would leave John behind without a second thought.

  
Breathing a deep sigh, John pushed himself away from the door and sternly told himself to stop being silly. If Sherlock had any intention of leaving, surely he would have said so by now. Instead, he had done much the opposite ever since their tentative reconciliation.

  
A reconciliation, John had to ruefully admit, that was only tentative on his side. Sherlock seemed perfectly willing to return to the pre-Fall status quo. The only one dawdling was him. And also, Sherlock claimed he was his Guardian - a truly mindblowing concept - so surely that meant he couldn't just up and leave.

  
He went about his evening routine but found that Harry's flat offered no real comfort to him. It had been meant to be a temporary solution and after several weeks of cohabitation he could tell that his sister was getting increasingly desperate to have the flat to herself again. He didn't blame her - if it had been the other way around, his patience would have run out far earlier. In fact, he suspected Harry had deliberately stayed away from home for longer than work required her to.

  
Frowning, he finally gave in, got changed and went to bed - or rather, the sofa. There was nothing else to do but brood and he might as well do that while lying down.

  
In the end, coming to a decision was easy. He could not continue to stay here and he was getting increasingly sick of the pang of guilt he felt every time he walked into 221b Baker Street and saw the relief light up Sherlock's face. Even now, after weeks of having established a routine of coming over at some point every day, Sherlock still seemed to expect each day to be the one where he would stop coming back.

  
"This is stupid," he muttered to the ceiling, not even caring that he was talking to himself.

  
The next day, he packed his stuff, left a note for Harry and hailed a cab.

  
Doing all the heavy lifting and carrying his things by himself was more than worth the look on Sherlock's face when he poked his head through the door of the flat and said: "Say, has Mrs Hudson found the time to clean my old room or do I have to do it myself before bringing my stuff in?"

  
*****

 

He never would have expected this to happen. Sherlock sat, paralysed, unable to do anything but stare at John in disbelieving joy.

  
John was inquiring after his old room. John had gone ahead and brought all his things along. John was moving back in. Out of the blue.

  
Sherlock cast his mind back to their conversation in the freezer, trying to figure out which particular statement had made his friend decide to return home. He couldn't for the life of him come up with anything out of the ordinary, except of course the entire conversation itself. But surely it couldn't have been that. He had been honest and crass and some of his words had clearly disturbed John - so what was it that had led him back here anyway?

  
He opened his mouth to ask, but couldn't get the words out. Instead, he found himself saying: "She lied about the state of your room. She's been dusting in there for weeks."

  
"Perfect." John beamed and a moment later Sherlock could hear him bounding down the stairs, undoubtedly to get the rest of his things.

  
Feeling caught wrong-footed, Sherlock sat and listened to John lumbering up and down the steps to his room, puttering about with boxes and clothes and whatever else he had brought. Finally, he realised he was gripping the arms of his chair almost forcefully to keep himself from racing after John and doing something stupid, like maybe press him against the nearest wall and kiss him senseless. It was a tempting thought, but Sherlock rather feared such behaviour might not be taken as the "welcome home" he intended it to be.

  
To keep himself entertained and to do something to alleviate his increasing frustration with how ridiculously slow on the uptake John was, he decided to phrase the entire thing as an experiment in his own mind.

  
In all honesty, it was more of a test in endurance while he waited for John to catch up and realise the obvious, but until then he could at least pretend to have a specific goal in mind that didn't come down to _"I'm afraid of what might happen if I tell you the truth so I'm waiting for you to figure it out on your own"_. Which was precisely what he was doing, of course.

  
He stayed where he was and waited for John to finish unpacking, unwilling to disturb him and accidentally remind him of all the reasons living with Sherlock clearly sucked and shouldn't be attempted. But John didn't seem concerned about any of that. He finished unpacking, came downstairs with a cheerful comment about the clean state of his old room, and, upon noticing Sherlock still sitting in his chair, said: "Have you had breakfast?"

  
"Today or in general?"

  
"That's a no, then," John sighed. "I'm just popping down to the bakery to get us something to eat. Don't disappear on me."

  
He was bounding down the stairs before Sherlock could tell him that the only one likely to disappear would be John.

  
John did not disappear, however, at least not for longer than it took to nip down to the bakery next door and return with a bag full of croissants.

  
"Old Mr Chatterjee gave them to me for free," he said, astonished. "Said he saw me moving my stuff back in and wanted to celebrate me being back home. His words, not mine." He looked puzzled. "He asked if that meant you would be here more often from now on, too, and if so he is missing his keys and-"

  
"They're underneath the flowerpot on the left side of the door," Sherlock interrupted him, bored. "He put them there in a moment of absent-mindedness instead of underneath the mat. Both are incredibly uninspired hiding places. In fact, I wouldn't even call them hiding places at all, they're so obvious."

  
"I'll tell him next time I see him," John said, grinning, and handed him a plate with a croissant on it. It was still warm and smelled fantastic. Sherlock breathed in deeply.

  
"What did he mean about you being here more often now that I moved back in?," John asked, settling into his own chair after switching on the kettle.

  
Sherlock pretended to be busy tearing his croissant in half. "I spent most of my time at the Yard or the laboratory at Bart's," he answered quietly, trying to sound off-handed about it.

  
John frowned. "But you've been here every day when I came by."

  
"Because I knew you would," Sherlock pointed out. "The flat didn't feel very homely without you there. I preferred not to spend too much time here on my own."

  
Something in his face must have betrayed how wrong John's absence had felt because the man in question made a noise of understanding. "I moved back to the bedsit after you ... jumped. Couldn't stand the thought of being here with all those memories and no one to share them with who would understand."

  
Sherlock raised his head and stared at him, taking in the lines of remembered grief etched onto his face. "I am sorry," he finally said quietly. "If there had been another way, I would have told you about my plan, let you in on it, so you would not have felt any unnecessary pain caused by my absence."

  
John sighed. "We could argue about this for years and never come to any conclusion," he pointed out. "It's over and done with and even though I may not have mentioned it yet, I am glad you're alive. Or ... whatever. You know. I'm glad you're back."

  
For lack of anything to say in response that wouldn't sound horribly soppy, Sherlock nodded jerkily and ate his croissant with more enthusiasm than food normally garnered.

  
They spent the rest of the day in quiet companionship. John finished unpacking, gradually filling the sitting room with his books and magazines. His laptop found its way back onto the desk, charger plugged into the nearest socket, and after one quick trip up the stairs he returned with his toiletries. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, pretending to be engrossed in his experiment, and listened to the beautiful sounds of John puttering about the bathroom and the rest of the flat.

  
He watched as books and other odds and ends returned to the mess that made the flat a home rather than a mere place to live in, and had little success in keeping his eyes off the man responsible for it all. He felt lighter than he had in months, more hopeful now than even on the day of his return home to find everything in pieces.

  
This was how things were supposed to be - cohabitation, shared space resembling shared lives - and he reveled in it.

  
It took him the entire day to finally work up his nerve to bring up the topic he was most curious about and he only dared to when he and John were sitting in their respective chairs with a warm fire crackling next to them.

  
"Have you heard from Mary, then?," he asked tentatively.

  
John's expression darkened and he shook his head. "Not a word," he sighed. "I don't think I will, to be honest, and I'm not sure I actually want to. I know Mycroft has people searching for her to question her about her involvement in what happened, and I suppose he'd tell me if they found her. But I don't really want to think about it."

  
"You're not going to go back to her, then?," Sherlock inquired. It took a lot of focus to sound unconcerned.

  
"Of course not," John said, scoffing. "Our entire relationship was a farce! She cheated on me. I just ... even if she hadn't, I wouldn't go back. I'm afraid the life we lead is far too dangerous to bring her into. Or would be, rather. But she did cheat and that's really all I need to know to decide that I don't want her back."

  
He didn't look too happy about it, though, and Sherlock chose to steer the topic in another, potentially dangerous direction. "But you are going to try again?"

  
"Try what?"

  
"Dating."

  
John frowned. "What makes you think that?"

  
"Since we met, you haven't gone for longer than two months without going on a date with someone, John. It seems only natural that you would continue the pattern."

  
He didn't add that he hated it.

  
"Huh," John said. "I don't know. I guess I will, eventually. But it's all a bit too fresh right now, actually. You should understand that. It's been how long since that thing with Victor fell flat?"

  
"About 245 years," Sherlock told him.

  
"And you gave up looking."

  
"I stopped searching, yes." They were encroaching on dangerous territory here and he waited for John to continue his questioning, but instead, he merely nodded.

  
"There you have it then. It's only been two weeks, more or less. For me, I mean."

  
Sherlock understood what he meant - John needed time. He nodded and returned his attention to the book on rare poisons he had been reading all evening.

  
*****

  
Two days after that conversation, Sherlock was resigned to waiting for at least another month before he might consider giving John a hint as to the painfully obvious fact he was missing. He did everything correctly. He didn't brush against John when there was enough space to avoid it without being obvious. He didn't stare at him too much. He didn't make a single suggestive remark or compliment John on his appearance, though he sometimes had to bite his tongue to stop himself.

  
Every now and then, he even returned to his usual mulish behaviour and refused to eat or sleep, feeling a bit more secure in his knowledge that John would not walk away the moment things got difficult or frustrating.

  
Then again, if anyone had cause to feel frustrated, surely it was Sherlock himself.

  
Right at this very moment, for example, he was actually sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the flat and a heavy encyclopedia in his hands to make sure he stayed where he was, for fear of what might happen if he moved.

  
John remained blissfully oblivious to this fact. John was taking a shower. Or rather - he had been doing that. The flow of the water had stopped exactly seventeen seconds ago and Sherlock wondered if it was possible to turn himself into a towel. The part of him that wasn't slowly boiling in a haze of helpless lust was disgusted with his own thoughts.

  
The bathroom door was opened and John stepped out into the hall and padded into the kitchen on bare feet, leaving stray drops of water in his wake. Not that Sherlock was paying attention to that. He hadn't even noticed he had turned around, for heaven's sake! Clearly his observational skills were on the way out if he didn't even take note of his own movements any more. At least the heavy book in his lap was doing a great job at hiding the effects of John parading around the flat in nothing but his tattered bathrobe.

  
"Morning," John greeted him cheerfully. "Tea?"

  
Sherlock grunted in a way that might be interpreted as a 'yes'.

  
"Got a case?"

  
He shook his head, staring down at the encyclopedia with an intensity that should have set the pages on fire. It didn't, astonishingly, but it made him wonder what he would do if it worked. Probably stare at John's bathrobe next.

  
He swallowed at the mere thought and made himself turn the page and allow his eyes to wander across the words. It didn't matter if he actually retained any of the information, he already had the book memorised and was merely holding on to it in order to keep himself anchored.

  
A warm mug appeared in his line of vision and he flinched in surprise, then made the mistake of raising his gaze.

  
John was standing right in front of him, bare toes curled into the carpet, legs naked and still a bit damp on the shins before the bathrobe hid them from view from the knees upwards. Sherlock forced his gaze to skip over John's hips and midsection for the sake of his own sanity, but got caught by the visible skin of his chest in the vee of the bathrobe's collar.

  
Finally, his gaze made it up to John's face to find John staring down at him. "Are you all right?"

  
"Fine," Sherlock rasped, reaching out with one surprisingly steady hand and accepting the cup John was holding out to him. "Thank you."

  
John frowned. "Are you sure? You look a bit ... dazed."

  
"Too much input," Sherlock said, gesturing at the encyclopedia. "Did you know a hummingbird's heart beats up to 1,260 times per minute? And they can flap their wings up to 200 times per second." He spread his own. "It takes me over a second to even flap them once."

  
To his relief, the diversion worked and John took a couple of steps back to admire his wings once more. "Probably because they're so huge," he pointed out. "Also, you'd starve to death if you tried that. Don't hummingbirds have incredibly fast metabolisms?"

  
Sherlock nodded. "They're only hours away from starving to death at any given time."

  
John snorted. "You barely eat as it is, you'd keel over before the hour was out."

  
"Probably," Sherlock conceded, taking a sip of his tea. "You seem to be trying to persuade me into attempting it, though. There is enough sugar in here to keep even a hummingbird alive for half a day."

  
"Now you're exaggerating," John said, not at all apologetic. "I have to get some calories into you somehow and since tea seems to be the only thing you're willing to consume..."

  
Sherlock had to bite his tongue to keep from saying _'I'd consume_ you'.

  
With great effort, he kept silent and watched as John returned to the kitchen to get his toast out of the toaster and read the newspaper while he ate. He retreated upstairs afterwards and when he came back down five minutes later, fully dressed, Sherlock didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  
He frowned at his encyclopedia. Clearly this entire situation was getting terribly out of hand. John had been back for two full days and he was already behaving worse than a love-sick teenager. If he didn't get this under control soon, even John wouldn't remain oblivious for much longer. Really, there had to be limits to the man's ignorance, but his blind spot where Sherlock was concerned seemed to be ridiculously large.

  
One month, Sherlock reminded himself sternly. He'd give John one more month to get over Mary and the moment he caught him looking at another woman, he would make it painfully obvious that he would not put up with another Jeanette or Carol or whatever their names were. One month and he'd grab John by the collar and shove his nose into the truth that had been right in front of him the entire time, waiting to be noticed.


	52. Part 10 - Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

There was definitely something going on, John was sure about it. Unfortunately, he had no idea what.

  
Sherlock was behaving oddly. Well, oddly for him. There were no unusual experiments ('unusual' here meaning something John hadn't seen before) in the fridge or on the kitchen table or in the bathroom, he was reasonably sure that Sherlock wasn't putting anything into his food or drinks ... and yet Sherlock was watching him. Constantly.

  
John had never felt himself being more thoroughly stared at than since he had moved back into 221b Baker Street. In fact, he sometimes wondered if Sherlock was actually sneaking into his room at night to stare at him while he slept. He had woken up once to find the room empty and the most disconcerting thing about that particular moment had been his acute sense of disappointment.

  
Of course he didn't actually _want_ to find Sherlock in his room in the middle of the night. That could only lead to a lot of confusion and general awkwardness. Or at least so he tried to tell himself. And there was always the possibility of some bizarre experiment Sherlock was conducting on him but had somehow failed to mention. It wouldn't be the first time.

  
John didn't even want to think about what else might happen if he discovered Sherlock in his bedroom in the middle of the night. But of course Sherlock hadn't actually been there and he had been having weird thoughts, so the entire thing was ridiculous and he shouldn't be wasting any time thinking about it at all.

  
Rolling his eyes at his own thoughts, John buried his head behind the newspaper he was pretending to read. Of course that did nothing to prevent him from feeling stared at. He kept his newspaper where it was and moved his head to the side, glancing past the paper towards Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, fingers stapled on his chest, and clearly deep within the walls of his mind palace.

  
John gave up.

  
But he knew that there were times when Sherlock was watching him. He caught him at it sometimes, with a weird look on his face that appeared strangely similar to barely-concealed impatience. It was almost as if Sherlock was waiting for him to do or say something and John kept failing to live up to his expectation, whatever the hell it was.

  
An experiment seemed increasingly likely as the month progressed and Sherlock got noticeably more impatient.

  
"Are you waiting for a delivery?," John finally asked him, knowing full well that he wasn't.

  
"No," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking surprised. He tilted his head. "What makes you think that?"

  
"You've been fidgeting around for weeks now," John pointed out. "Either you're impatient for something to happen or you have fleas, in which case you should really take a bath and get something to kill them. You could even concoct it yourself, for amusement purposes. I'm sure your little lab here would be sufficient." He gestured at the kitchen.

  
Sherlock tilted his head to the other side, as if John were some particularly interesting murder mystery. Sometimes he forgot how fascinating his friend found him. "This is your conclusion then? Fleas?"

  
"Or a delivery, which you already denied. I must confess I'm relieved. I can only imagine what would get you in such a state of excitement if it came by mail and I'm not sure I want to find any of the things that come to mind in our fridge. Or bathtub."

  
"That was one time," Sherlock groaned. "Ages ago! You can let it go now. And I don't have fleas." He sniffed.

  
"Well, it's good to hear that," John told him, amused. "I do have better things to do with my time than to help you wash your hair to make sure they're all gone. Or lice." He shuddered. "Do try to avoid getting those, will you?"

  
The expression on Sherlock's face was both priceless and very difficult to decipher. "... if you say so," he finally said, looking like he was thinking very hard indeed about something.

  
"Please don't make this into an experiment. I really don't want to have to wash lice out of your hair, Sherlock."

  
"Keep this up and I'll make you do it just for the fun of it," Sherlock threatened, grinning at him.

  
John immediately relaxed. It had been far too long since Sherlock had actually been playful with him. It seemed he was finally relaxed enough himself to stop waiting for John to jump up and leave. Perhaps that was all this most recent behaviour was about. A month was definitely long enough to conclude that John had no intention of going anywhere without knowing he'd return within hours.

  
"That's assuming I'd actually help you instead of watching you scratch your head for hours," he retaliated.

  
Sherlock looked at him with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I might shave my head."

  
John swallowed. Shaving off those glorious dark curls had to be a crime, he was reasonably sure of that. "I'd have Lestrade arrest you for crimes against humanity if you did that."

  
"Really?"

  
"Absolutely," John said. "Although I'm not sure he'd manage to, because he'd be using one hand trying to hold his phone and take a video of you with a bald head and the other would probably be pressed to a wall to keep him upright while he's laughing."

  
Sherlock frowned and nodded, conceding the point. Lestrade was at times just as immature as they were, and he seemed dedicated to capturing as many of Sherlock's less than stellar moments on his phone to save them for posterity.

  
They dropped the topic and it was only when John was lying in bed later that night that he realised Sherlock had not actually told him what had him in such a jittery state. He could only hope it would blow over soon, because all this nervous energy was making him nervous, too.

  
It was hard to focus on something when Sherlock was pacing about the room in his custom-tailored suits. John had thought he was over this stupid obsession with his best friend's appearance, but apparently that was not the case. It was also getting increasingly difficult to appreciate the view now that he knew that Sherlock had no intention of allowing anyone a closer look who wasn't actually destined to do so, not to mention the fact that Sherlock himself was spending so much time staring at him that he'd catch him looking in no time at all.

  
John groaned and buried his face in his pillow. Perhaps he should give up on this pointless ... thing ... for good and just find a nice woman who was not lying to his face the entire time. He could introduce her to Sherlock immediately and see what the detective deduced about her. Surely Sherlock would spot a liar from a mile away.

  
And then, when they had established that John was incapable of finding a suitable girlfriend who could a) withstand Sherlock's deductions and b) withstand Sherlock's character, perhaps he would simply stop trying and contend himself with living with an angel and some solitary wanks in the shower. Clearly that would be the best solution all around. And if he went mad with repressed longing, well, he had only himself to blame. Sherlock, at least, had made his point clear. Friendship was where he had drawn the line and he would not accept so much as a single toe crossing it.

  
It wasn't Sherlock's fault that all these old feelings had sprung back up the moment John had allowed himself to start trusting his friend again.

  
"John Watson, you are the biggest idiot on this planet," John told himself, yawned, and finally drifted off to sleep.

  
*****

 

Two days later, they were running.

  
For reasons John couldn't quite follow, a group of people was very angry with Sherlock and had decided that expressing their anger was best done by chasing him - and by association John - through London with every intention of beating him to a pulp once they got a hold of him.

  
Which, of course, meant that Sherlock and John had to run -

  
"Faster!," Sherlock yelled at him, careening around a corner and into yet another alley. An iron wrought gate intercepted their path, inconveniently locked. Sherlock hopped onto a bin and vaulted across the fence, dropping to the other side. Panting, John followed him, kicking the bin over on his way over the fence. The resulting noise made a cat flee from its spot on a nearby window sill. It raced down the street they had come from and Sherlock grabbed John by arm and dragged him around and into a small, dark niche.

  
"If we're lucky, they'll believe the noise was due to the cat and won't come back here to investigate," he panted into John's ear, crowding him as far back into the niche as possible, his dark coat effectively melting into the shadows of the gloomy alley and concealing them from view.

  
They stayed in place for several breathless, tense minutes, listening for approaching footsteps and not hearing any. Voices approached, then retreated, and finally faded entirely.

  
"I think they're gone," John gasped, still trying to get his breath back. "Ugh, I need to take up jogging again. I can barely keep up with you anymore. I used to be fitter. Guess I got a bit soft around the middle."

  
"You still look fit," Sherlock said. "It's only your stamina that needs some work."

  
"Gee, thanks." John made a face, tilting his head back to meet Sherlock's gaze and roll his eyes at him.

  
He never got that far, freezing the moment he realised how incredibly close Sherlock was. _'As close as in the freezer'_ his mind whispered, dutifully supplying him with the memory of warm arms and wings around him and Sherlock's throat mere inches from his face.

  
Sherlock mustn't have noticed, for he made no move to step away.

  
John swallowed. "Uh ... Sherlock?"

  
"Yes?" It was more a growl than a question, that baritone having dropped by at least another octave.

  
Nervously, John cast around for something to say when their very position came to his aid. "Uh ... haven't we been here before?"

  
He turned his head this way and that, trying to see as much of where they were as possible in the fading daylight and with Sherlock taking up most of his field of vision.

  
"We have," Sherlock agreed, his tone still rather low and deep. "It's the same place we found ourselves in the last time we were on the run, only it was the police on our heels then."

  
Now that he had a context, John recalled the precise occasion. Oh yes. That had been the night before Sherlock had ... jumped. Not a good memory at all, but the night itself ... oh, how alive they had been then, running through alleys, handcuffed together, climbing over an iron gate and ending up in this little nook ...

  
He sucked in a breath, remembering that moment when their eyes had met and held. He still recalled it perfectly, now that he actively tried. The hunger on Sherlock's face before he'd abruptly stepped away ...

  
John swallowed and returned his gaze to Sherlock. The very same hunger was written all over his face now, too, his pupils blown wide amidst the thin silver rings of his irises, his mouth slightly open as he stared down at John.

  
"What ...?" He didn't even know what he was going to ask.

  
"I decided to correct a mistake," Sherlock said, voice dangerously low. John had the impression that Sherlock was somehow even closer now than he had been mere seconds before, though he had not seen him move or heard any rustle of clothing to indicate motion.

  
"W-what mistake?"

  
The only mistake he could recall Sherlock making that night had been to meet with Moriarty alone and jump off a roof, after all.

  
Warm breath ghosted across his face. "I really should have done this years ago. What a terrible waste of time."

  
John wanted to ask what he was talking about, but never got the chance to actually do it because that was when Sherlock pulled him impossibly closer and kissed him.


	53. Part 10 - Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

As far as kisses went, it was a very chaste affair. Soft, warm lips pressed to his own, gentle and a bit hesitant, as if Sherlock had made up his mind about this but was still unsure about how John would react. To be entirely honest, so was John.

  
For several seconds, he simply stood there, frozen in shock. Clearly what his brain and mouth and eyes were telling him could not actually be true and if he stayed unmoving for as long as possible, surely the cruel hallucination would end. Feeling oddly disconnected from his body, he found himself staring at Sherlock's face instead, so close to his he could only see parts of it. His eyes were closed, forehead smooth and the muscles around his eyes relaxed. He looked like a sleepwalker. And all the while, his mouth stayed on John's, soft but firm.

  
Finally, with a deep sigh, his lips parted ever so slightly and brushed against John's for a tantalising moment before Sherlock drew back and opened his eyes.

  
John stared at him, stunned.

  
Sherlock licked his lips and looked oddly contemplative. Then, he frowned. "I don't understand."

  
"Understand what?," John asked, because talking seemed much more straightforward than trying to figure out how to react to what had just happened.

  
"People like kissing." Sherlock laid it down as a fact.

  
"Ye-es?," John drawled, not at all sure where this was leading.

  
Sherlock shrugged, looking oddly disappointed. "I thought there was more to it, since everyone seems to like it so much. Perhaps I have been over-estimating the general effect after so long."

  
This was about the time where John's brain caught up to the rest of the world. "You ... what? Kissing? That's not _kissing_ , Sherlock."

  
"But..."

  
"No, that was _a_ kiss. Well, not really. A peck, maybe. Bit of a long one, but not really something I'd classify as a proper kiss." Here, at least, John felt on familiar ground. This was his area of expertise, after all.

  
Sherlock still looked unconvinced. "But this is how-"

  
"Oh for God's sake," John growled, reaching out and dragging him back down. "For further reference: _this_ is a kiss."

  
Then again, maybe his brain wasn't quite in working order yet, because surely there could be no other explanation for the fact that he was standing in a dark nook of a grimy alley, kissing Sherlock Holmes.

  
This, at least, was a proper kiss.

  
It started gently, because somewhere in the back of his head John recalled that, by his own admission, Sherlock had never kissed anyone before and therefore deserved a gentle start to ease him into it, so to speak.

  
He held Sherlock in place with both hands on the sides of his face, stretching up to slide his lips against that full mouth, pulled his lower lip between the two of his and sucked lightly, applying just the faintest pressure of teeth.

  
Sherlock gasped, grabbing his lapels for added leverage and bent down further, his mouth opening instinctively, a fact John took full advantage of. His tongue traced Sherlock's now slightly swollen lower lip before moving on to that devastating cupid's bow and finally sweeping in, tentatively brushing Sherlock's own tongue.

  
The resulting moan quivered in the air between and around them and a moment later, Sherlock returned the kiss. Though new and unpracticed at kissing, he was a quick learner and was soon applying John's own technique against him.

  
Finally, when the need for air became too great, John drew back, gasping.

  
Sherlock opened his eyes and the slightly dazed look on his face was the most rewarding thing he had ever seen. This, then, was how this incredible man looked when his brain had taken a swan-dive and was not available for comment. John soaked up the image and wished he could take a picture just so he would never forget it for as long as he lived.

  
He had kissed Sherlock Holmes. Thoroughly. And he couldn't even quite explain how it had happened. He could do nothing but stare at Sherlock's flushed cheeks and swollen lips and think that he was the one responsible for this.

  
Good God.

  
He had kissed Sherlock Holmes! A man who had vowed to never kiss anyone who wasn't his ...

  
"I'm sorry," John gasped, horrified.

  
That, at last, seemed to draw Sherlock from his daze. "Huh?"

  
"I ... I don't know what happened," John stammered. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have ..." He gestured vaguely at Sherlock's mouth. "You said you didn't want to ... you know ... with anyone who wasn't your soulmate. So ... I'm sorry. Oh God."

  
Sherlock stared at him and John could actually see the cogs turning in that brilliant head of his. "Why are you apologising? You keep apologising. Stop it."

  
"But you said ..."

  
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, staring down at him as if John was missing something painfully obvious. "And may I remind you that I was the one who initiated ... all this?" It was his turn to gesture.

  
John stared at him. In his shock, he had temporarily forgotten that Sherlock had actually been the one to kiss him first. But Sherlock had said he wouldn't ... not unless ... which meant that ...

  
Suddenly, he was very glad he was pressed against a wall because he temporarily lost all faith in his legs' ability to hold him up.

  
"You ... you mean ..." He trailed off, unwilling and unable to believe that he had understood correctly. Surely this was a joke. And it wasn't even a very good one. If he misunderstood this, then it would actually be quite painful and embarrassing.

  
Sherlock continued to stare at him, his gaze calm and steady.

  
John swallowed tightly. "You ... and I ... that ..."

  
"Yes," Sherlock said simply. Seeing that John was beyond words, he hastened to explain. "I don't expect you to place any importance on it, of course. Unless you want to, that is. But I have been waiting for you for all my life, so I thought I might as well have one kiss to tide me over."

  
He frowned, biting his lush bottom lip. "I may have slightly miscalculated," he admitted, embarrassed. "I didn't expect it to feel ... quite like that. I'm not sure I can go back to the way it was before, now that I know what it's like."

  
He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth and stared down at his shoes, unable to meet John's eyes.

  
"I ... you know what?"

  
Sherlock glanced up at him through his lashes, looking endearingly hopeful.

  
John sighed. "I think we should go home. This isn't quite the place for this conversation."

  
He knew he was stalling, but really, what could he do? It was getting cold outside and he had no desire to stay out here for much longer when they might as well continue this discussion in the warm confines of their flat with a fire in the hearth and a hot cup of tea.

  
Sherlock looked around, apparently only just now realising they were still standing where he had led them. "All right then," he said, apparently still a bit unsure about where that left them, but willing to follow John home all the same.

  
*****

 

They walked back to 221b Baker Street in silence. John had no idea what was going on in Sherlock's mind, but he himself had about half a billion questions that demanded answering, none of them suitable for a conversation out on the street where anyone could hear them.

  
He kept several more inches between them than he usually did when they walked, well aware of the fact that Sherlock would notice and wonder about it. But he couldn't help himself. There was just too much hanging between them and he knew that if he touched Sherlock now or even looked at him at the wrong moment, they would never make it to any actual conversation taking place tonight.

  
Though the alley was less than a ten-minute walk away from Baker Street, half an eternity seemed to pass before they reached the familiar front door that had symbolised home since John had first stepped through it all those years ago.

  
Sherlock held the door open for him and followed him up the stairs, still holding his silence as if he expected John to snap at him the moment he opened his mouth.

  
Finally the door to their flat fell closed behind them. John wordlessly took off his jacket and shoes, moving towards the kitchen and switching on the kettle. When he turned around to get their cups out of the cupboard, Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the room, still wearing his coat and scarf and looking rather lost.

  
"What are you doing?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "If you're going to throw me out, I might as well save myself the trouble of having to put on my coat before I go."

  
John turned around, leaned against the kitchen counter, and crossed his arms. "And why precisely do you believe I'm going to throw you out?"

  
"Are you going to leave, then?"

  
How a grown man managed to sound so small was a mystery to John.

  
He rolled his eyes. "Just take off your coat and scarf and sit down, will you? Good lord. You'd think I'm some kind of monster or something."

  
When Sherlock continued to look unsure, he huffed. "Listen, this is what's going to happen: I'm going to make tea, which you will drink, and we are going to sit in our sitting room and talk about this. And absolutely _no one_ is leaving. Got it?"

  
Sherlock nodded, looking a lot less wary now that leaving was off the table. John wanted to kick himself all over again for having acted like a bloody bastard in those first few months after Sherlock's return. Clearly his behaviour had left some scars.

  
The kettle whistled, effectively ending his guilty woolgathering and he went about preparing their tea the way he always did, carrying both cups into the sitting room and handing Sherlock his before settling down in his armchair.

  
Following his lead - and wasn't that a surprising change? - Sherlock sank into his own chair opposite him, staring down into his tea as if he expected it to tell him what to do next. Unsurprisingly, no answer was forthcoming as far as John could tell.

  
He took a sip from his tea, set his cup down on the small table next to his chair and turned his full attention on Sherlock. Half a dozen questions demanded to be asked simultaneously, but the one that finally made it out first was perhaps the most crucial one.

  
"How long?"

  
"Pardon me?"

  
John sighed. "How long have you known?"

  
"I ... does it matter?" Sherlock sipped his tea, then looked puzzled by the action and carefully placed his cup on the desk.

  
"Of course it bloody matters!," John told him. "How. Long?"

  
Sherlock looked at the floor, the wall, John's feet, John's tea cup, the door ... anywhere but John's face. He cleared his throat, swallowed. "Since I jumped."

  
He still didn't look up. John was kind of glad about that. He struggled to make sense of this. Years. Sherlock had known for _years_. And still he had left! John didn't know if that made things better or far worse. He didn't even know if he believed any of it. He wanted to, but if this turned out to be some sort of joke he wouldn't be able to handle it.

  
"If it helps," Sherlock said quietly, still staring at the floor, "I started falling in love with you the moment you called me amazing in the cab, on our way to our first crime scene together. I have been yours from the moment I realised you shot the cabbie."

  
John had no idea what to say to that. The words 'I have been yours' reverbrated through his mind, tangled with 'in love with you' and left him amazed and confused beyond words. If it was a simple matter of love, he might have understood. But Sherlock was confessing to more than that. It was a lot to take in.

  
John took an unsteady breath. "Listen ... a lot of weird stuff has happened recently. I can believe that you are an angel because I can see your wings - sometimes. But this ... this is different and I ... I need some kind of proof, Sherlock."

  
Sherlock sighed and said nothing. John nodded. "All right. I'll just be upstairs then, while you come up with something tangible for me."

  
He turned towards the door, suddenly desperate to get some distance between them.

  
Sherlock's voice stopped him.

  
"What did you say?" Because he was sure Sherlock had spoken, had called him back, in fact. John was reasonably sure Sherlock hadn't said his name and yet he experienced the feeling of confusion people felt when they heard their name in public and looked around to find no one looking at them.

  
Sherlock repeated the word. It sounded like sunshine dancing on water, like snow fluttering to the ground and a leaf tumbling through the air. It sounded the way music might if someone figured out how to turn the notes into sound without an instrument or resorting to singing. John's brain refused to interpret the sound.

  
"What was that?," he demanded, turning to stare at the angel in the sitting room.

  
"Your name," Sherlock said softly. "Your soul's name. It's only possible for me to know it because I looked at your soul without burning out my eyes. It's written all over yours. All over mine, too."

  
John stared, disbelieving. That was his name? This? It was more an impression than a sound. "Bit hard to pronounce, isn't it?"

  
"That's because it's in my language," Sherlock informed him. "You'll automatically learn it upon death. The human mind can't interpret the sounds properly. But you did react when I called you."

  
Well that explained it then. And it was certainly the kind of proof he had wanted, if not expected.

  
"You might have told me sooner," he pointed out weakly.

  
Sherlock scoffed. "When was I supposed to do that?," he asked bitterly. "When you told me you were moving in with your girlfriend? When you told me you-you never wanted to see me again?" His voice broke on the last word. "When ... when you walked into St. Bart's and said you were going to, to marry _her_ and asked Lestrade to be your best man? I can really see that going down well, John."

  
He rarely used sarcasm when there were other means of ridiculing people at his disposal, but John couldn't begrudge him that. Not now, when every word Sherlock spoke was laced with a kind of pain he was never, ever, supposed to feel.

  
John opened his mouth to say ... something, then closed it again. What could he possibly say? Sherlock, of course, was right.

  
"No," he finally rasped. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. But I moved back in one and a half months ago, Sherlock. You could've said something anytime."

  
Sherlock stared at him as if he was stupid. "You said you weren't looking for another relationship," he pointed out. "You said you needed time."

  
"Before I threw myself back in the game of trying to find the right person to spend my life with, yes!," John said, exasperated. "It's exhausting, Sherlock. Looking at someone and thinking _'This could be the one'_. You know that, you've been through that. It's not quite the same when the outcome is practically guaranteed!"

  
He shook his head. "Look, you said it yourself ... this ... us ... it's a perfect match. How could you possibly think I'd throw that away?"

  
"You never react the way I expect you to," Sherlock explained. "Any normal person would jump at the chance, I suppose, but if you were normal you wouldn't be sitting here right now." He took a breath. "I told you what I want. In the freezer, I told you."

  
John stared at him, cast his mind back to that conversation. "A lifetime."

  
Sherlock nodded. "That's all. I won't claim I don't care how little or how much time I actually get to spend with you, so long as it will be for the rest of your life. By now I think it's become rather obvious that I do not cope well without you and given the choice I wouldn't leave your side ever again."

  
He paused, thought about his words, then hurried on. "It has to be your choice, John. I'll take as little or as much of your time as you are willing to give. But I need you to tell me how much that is going to be and in what capacity. I told you - I'll, I'll do anything. But you need to tell me what you want."

  
"What I want?," John repeated, not sure he was understanding him correctly. "What do you mean?"

  
He gestured around the room. "This ... our living arrangement here. You said no one was going to leave and that's fine. That's great. But where do you draw the line? Do we continue on as we were, before all of this happened? Do you wish to keep our relationship professional or friendly or-" He swallowed. "-more?"

  
John stared at him, wondering if his eyes were half as wide as they felt. "I ... what?"

  
But Sherlock was on a roll now and apparently needed to get it all off his chest in one go. "Because if you wish to continue as we did before, I'd be quite grateful if you could keep your girlfriends away from here. I'm ... to be honest I'm not sure I would react well to any of them, no matter their personality or intellect."

  
For a moment, his expression wavered and John could see traces of the agony the very idea of him being with anyone else caused. He thought of the pain in Sherlock's voice as he mentioned Mary, thought of that moment when he had told Sherlock he never wanted to see him again and how he had seen something crack and die in those incredible eyes the moment the words left his mouth. He thought of Sherlock, jumping off a building to save his life, and pressing a gun to his own head - all for John.

  
He shuddered. "I'd ... Sherlock, after what just happened in that alley just now, do you really believe that I'd just go back to before? That I'd do that to you?"

  
"There's no evidence supporting the possibility that you wouldn't," Sherlock said calmly. "I'm not a gambling man, John, I don't make it a habit to bet against the odds."

  
He drew back his shoulders and apparently tried to put on a brave face. "And of course I don't expect you to do anything. I told you, there are soulmates who never progress past friendship, it's not uncommon at all. I merely hope you'll do me the courtesy of giving me advance warning when you decide to ask anyone out on a date so I can ... be elsewhere."

  
His meaning was painfully obvious. Sentiment hung between them, muddling everything, but his course of action at least was clear.

  
"All right then," John said. "Here's some advance warning for you: I'm going out on a date tomorrow." He paused, licked his lips. "And I hope you'll be accompanying me because I'd look really stupid sitting at a table in a nice restaurant all by myself. Angelo might ask questions."

  
Sherlock looked at him as if John was the most puzzling mystery he had ever encountered.

  
John sighed. "Look, I get that you haven't really done this before. Just a hint, though: usually this is the part where you tell me if you actually want to have dinner with me."

  
"Are we talking about actual food?," Sherlock asked. "Or is dinner a euphemism for ...?"

  
He sounded intrigued. _'God help me,'_ John thought.

  
"I'm talking about you and me, in a restaurant, at the same table, eating," John told him firmly. "Probably some light conversation about murder, if you're interested in that kind of thing." He hesitated. "This is rather a lot to adjust to, so I think some time to get used to the idea wouldn't be amiss."

  
Sherlock looked both disappointed and relieved. He bit his lip. John tried not to stare.

  
And then Sherlock smiled. "In that case, I would very much like to have dinner with you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this because there's more where that came from. Also thank you for all your lovely comments!


	54. Part 10 - Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. After more than two millennia of loneliness, maybe a dinner date was a bit too forward at this stage.

  
Clearly he hadn't been thinking straight in accepting. He should tell John he had changed his mind. Yes, he definitely should do that.

  
His mouth appeared to have been glued shut and his phone was conveniently out of reach. Mrs Hudson was downstairs but wouldn't hear him calling and he was too lazy to move. Perhaps he could tell John later.

  
Except that of course 'later' was when the aforementioned dinner date was going to take place, and telling John he didn't think it was a good idea _after_ the fact seemed a tiny bit pointless. He had a mental image of his older brother laughing at him and saying _'Oh Sherlock'_ in that voice of his that suggested Sherlock had failed to grasp some concept of interaction that was obvious to everyone else on the planet.

  
Also, there was the not insignificant fact that he actually _wanted_ to have dinner with John. In retrospect, that was probably the reason he had been standing in front of his open closet for the past one and a half hours.

  
He wasn't actually having any trouble deciding what to wear, of course. Sherlock knew precisely what he wanted to wear: the outfit John liked best on him.

  
Which was why he was currently lost in the depths of his mind palace, shifting through his memories of each and every interaction they had ever had, and trying to figure out when John had appeared most appreciative of his appearance. His data set was dangerously limited and there was the additional complication posed by the fact that John had spent most of their previous acquaintance vehemently denying that any attraction existed between them at all.

  
It came down to a very narrow choice of clothes, really. His usual black trousers, certainly, and one of an array of white or coloured shirts beneath a black jacket. Not much of a challenge, really, but which shirt to choose?

  
White? Probably too formal for dinner at Angelo's.

  
Grey? Too dark, he didn't want to look too sombre. This wasn't a funeral - unless someone interrupted, in which case he was certainly entitled to murder them and arrange for their prompt burial in some forgotten corner of Hyde Park.

  
That left blue and purple and he had been searching, reviewing and comparing memories of John's reactions to both for the past hour.

  
His phone pinged with a new message and he almost dropped it in his haste to get it out of his pocket.

 

>   
>  _'A bit obsessive, don't you think? MH'_

  
Sherlock glared at his phone, then around the room, and texted back.

 

>   
>  _'Piss off.'_

  
The response came seconds later.

 

>   
>  _'Manners, brother dear. You're hardly going to impress him if you insist on being rude. MH'_

  
Sherlock wondered whether there was some kind of law against older brothers and if so, why hadn't anyone arrested Mycroft for being one yet?

 

>   
>  _'I said piss off.'_
> 
>   
>  _'You must be more nervous than I expected. MH'_
> 
>   
>  _'You must have gained at least two pounds since I last had the displeasure of seeing you.'_

  
Mycroft didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his next message left Sherlock staring down at his phone in utter confusion.

 

>   
>  _'Wear the purple one. John seems to like it. MH'_

  
After cursing his brother through all circles of Hell and back, Sherlock spent ten minutes stalking around his room and ripping out the surveillance equipment. Mycroft had never quite grasped where protection crossed the line to a blatant invasion of privacy. Perhaps Sherlock should set up surveillance in his house sometime soon, give him a taste of his own medicine. Then again, Mycroft probably had people sweeping the place for bugs and cameras four times a day.

  
"Next time I find one of those inside the flat," Sherlock said into the tiny microphone, "I will return it to you in person and put it in a place where your best doctors will have trouble extracting it." He then crushed it, along with the camera, beneath the heel of his shoe to make his point.

  
He returned his attention to his closet and the question of which shirt to wear. Not that it was much of a question anymore. His brother may be as meddlesome as an old woman, but Sherlock suspected he actually wanted this to work out for him. And Mycroft was far too proud of his own deductive abilities to get it wrong even on purpose. Sighing, Sherlock reached for his plum coloured shirt, then paused with his hand just brushing the fabric.

  
Perhaps he was thinking about this from the wrong angle. Perhaps it would be strategically better to wear the one John liked less in order to induce him to get it off him sooner.

  
With a huff, he shook off the thought and pulled on the purple shirt. There was such a thing as taking it too far.

  
A glance at the clock told him it was time to take a shower if he wanted to be ready to go by the time John came back from work. It seemed a very domestic thing to do, he thought as he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower - getting dressed for a night out together once John came home.

  
Involuntarily, the corners of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. He was going on a date. An actual date. With the only person on the planet whom he wanted to spend time with. Someone who seemed to want the very same thing, astonishingly enough.

  
Take things slowly, John had said. The memory further cemented Sherlock's decision to take the purple shirt. He would do his best to behave and be patient.

  
He washed the shampoo from his curls and turned the shower off, quickly toweling himself dry and pulling on his clothes with hands that shook just a tiny bit. What did people even do on dates?

  
He estimated that he still had roughly twenty minutes before John came back and then he would probably want to get changed and maybe have a shower as well. More than enough time to do a bit of research, then. Taking things slowly. He would have to find out what exactly that meant. Where was the line? Was touching all right? How about kissing?

  
He quite liked kissing, now that John had showed him how it was done properly. Humanity was incredible, inventing something like that. It never would have occurred to him to stick his tongue into another person's mouth for the sake of seeking pleasure. He certainly hadn't expected to find any in the activity and yet the memory alone was enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

  
The temptation had been there before, of course. John certainly hadn't been the first person he had wanted to kiss, but there was no denying that crossing the barrier between wanting and doing had been hilariously easy in this case - far easier than stepping back would have been. It had absolutely been worth the wait.

  
What mattered now was to figure out how soon he might expect a repetition. Did John even want that? He had been the one to offer dinner, to lay out the plan - to take things slowly. Slowly. That suggested progress. Progress was good, Sherlock decided. Progress meant he would get to keep John, that he would quite possibly even get increasingly more of John. The very idea sent a thrill along his spine, nerviness and eagerness and the still unfamiliar thrum of arousal wreaking havoc on his body, running rampant.

  
He settled onto the sofa with his laptop and started researching dating behaviour until John finally came home so they could leave and he could put his new-found knowledge into practice.

  
Finally, when his nervous anticipation had grown so much as to almost make him start bouncing his leg in impatience, John emerged from the bathroom, looking ridiculously perfect in jeans and a dark green shirt. "Ready to go?"

  
Sherlock snapped his laptop shut immediately and jumped up. "I've been ready for ages, John."

  
*****

 

They walked the few blocks to the restaurant in silence, their shoulders brushing ever so often as other people forced John to step closer to Sherlock in order to avoid running into anyone. Sherlock wanted to reach out and grasp his arm and keep him close, but he didn't quite dare, resenting the distance between them instead.

  
Finally, they reached the restaurant and were immediately waved to their usual table by Angelo, who came to greet them personally. "Sherlock! John! Ah, it is good to see the two of you back together again! Anything on the menu, on the house, as always!"

  
Sherlock opened his mouth to decline, but John beat him to it. "Thank you, Angelo," he said, smiling, and gestured at the table. "Might we have a candle?"

  
Angelo looked about ready to hug them both in his enthusiasm. " _Oddio_ , of course! _Immediatamente_!"

  
They watched him bustle away; John smiling, Sherlock astonished.

  
"You always protest against the candle," he said, confused.

  
John's smile vanished. "I protested his idea of us being on a date when we weren't," he explained. "This is a date. Therefore, I want a candle. Unless you changed your mind ...?"

  
"No!," Sherlock almost shouted. He ducked and softened his voice. "Of course not."

  
John's smile returned. "All right then."

  
Sherlock thought he probably shouldn't be staring at John's mouth all the time but he really couldn't help it. Now that he knew the precise texture of those lips and what they felt like against his own, not touching them felt like the most difficult thing he had ever done.

  
Angelo was back with the menu and a tall red candle in no time and withdrew immediately to give them more privacy - but not so far as to render him unable to surreptitiously watch from the other end of the room, Sherlock noted.

  
"You do know that by this time tomorrow, half of London will know about this, yes?," he asked quietly, indicating the candle on the table between them.

  
"I should hope so," John said, much to his astonishment. "Gives us an incentive to really try and make this work."

  
Sherlock decided to be honest. "I don't really need another incentive, John. I've got plenty."

  
To his private satisfaction, John swallowed. "Uh ... good. That's good, I guess. Erm ... it'll probably take me a while to get used to this," he confessed. "You, staring at me, I mean."

  
"I've always stared at you," Sherlock said, confused. "I don't see how it makes any difference now."

  
"Not like this," John told him. "You've been staring, yes, but never like this. Not like... I don't know, like you can't believe I'm here."

  
"I can't," he admitted easily. "John ... do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this? I can't remember a time when I wasn't waiting for you, whether I knew that's what I was doing or not. It's going to take me a while to adjust to not having to wait any longer."

  
He drew a deep breath. "You ... you said you wanted to- to take things slow. And I agree. But I'm afraid I can't promise to be very patient, so I hope you'll do what you do best and try to, uh, curb my enthusiasm a little when it becomes ... inappropriate."

  
John's next breath came out a little shakily. "You know... I can think of some areas were a bit of inappropriate enthusiasm might come in handy."

  
There had been many instances in Sherlock's life where he had wanted to lunge across a table at someone, but usually it had been in order to throttle them. He had never before felt the intense desire to kiss them senseless - not until now, at least.

  
Tearing his gaze away from John's before he could do something stupid, he gripped the edge of the bench with both hands to hold himself in place and was ridiculously relieved when Angelo appeared to take their order.

  
"You're eating tonight," John told him when Sherlock wanted to decline. "This is a date, remember? People go and have dinner. Having dinner is defined by both parties eating something."

  
Sherlock, of course, could not deny the logic in that and was quite keen on making sure to behave according to the confusing rules of dating. The internet really hadn't been very helpful. Clearly John was an expert on the subject, so he decided to defer to his superior knowledge.

  
He did, however, order the best wine on the menu. One thing every source he had consulted on the internet had agreed on was that wine was absolutely necessary for maximum romance and he was not above plying John with alcohol to make him overlook his inevitable screw-ups. Sherlock was sure he was going to ruin this before the night was over. He was determined to do his best not to, however. There had never been so much at stake before.

  
"You have that look again," John interrupted his train of thought.

  
"Excuse me?"

  
"That look," John repeated, gesturing at his face. "Like you can't believe this is real."

  
_'It feels too good to be real'_ was what Sherlock wanted to say but when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

  
John smiled and reached across the table, resting his left hand on Sherlock's right. "Relax, will you? I'm not going anywhere."

  
His warm touch was grounding and Sherlock focused on the heat of the hand covering his own, on the callused fingers and rough skin - the hand of a manual worker, a hand that had been wrapped around the handle of a gun too often to count. His heart leapt.

  
Tentatively, he returned John's smile and cast his mind around for something they might talk about. Smalltalk, the internet had advised. Ask about the other person's life and hobbies and dreams ... but he knew all of that already. The goal appeared to be to find out as much as possible about the other person, to see if you were compatible. But he already knew that, too.

  
It was John who broke the silence. "So, what did you do all day while I was at work?"

  
Sherlock shrugged. "Do you want the truth or a not quite correct but much more interesting rendition?"

  
John grinned. "Humour me with the truth."

  
"I sat around waiting for you to come home, spent over an hour deciding on what to wear tonight and researched proper date behaviour." He frowned. "There is no information useful or even remotely relevant to our unique situation."

  
There was no answer and he hesitated a moment before returning his gaze to John's face, afraid of what he might find there.

  
John was staring at him in utter amazement, but when he finally spoke, his tone was fond. "You are an impossible man."

  
"That's hardly new information, John."

  
"No," he agreed. "But it makes me all the more glad that I'm the one who gets to see you like this."

  
There was nothing Sherlock could say to that, so he remained silent, instead twisting his hand around between John's and linking their fingers. Something fluttered in his chest when John gave a gentle squeeze.

  
Angelo brought their wine, effectively interrupting them. Sherlock wanted to be annoyed, but then John drank a sip of wine and made a sound of pleased surprise and he promptly forgot Angelo even existed.

  
"So," he said, finally having decided on a course of conversation, "what do normal people do then, on their normal dates?"

  
A moment passed while John tried to work out why the question sounded oddly familiar. His resulting smile took Sherlock's breath away. "Talk, drink, eat," he said, hesitating before continuing. "Flirt."

  
"Sounds dull," Sherlock told him. "Except for the last part, of course." He lowered his voice, idly tracing one of John's fingers with his own. "Tell me, John ... are you flirting with me?"

  
John visibly shivered. "Uhm ... I think you're the one flirting with _me_ , actually." He caught Sherlock's wandering finger with his own, holding his hand captive as he turned it palm-up and began tracing the lines there with his other hand, the touch so gentle Sherlock barely felt it. "Then again ... two can play this game."

  
Sherlock hadn't been aware that the nerves of his pinky were directly connected to his groin until John rubbed his fingertip between his own. Then again, he had never paid close attention to sexual pleasure, which was probably why it took him so much by surprise every time his body reacted in ways he wasn't used to.

  
He swallowed, remembering that kiss last night. He hadn't slept a wink, a fact he was reasonably sure John was aware of. The very idea of sleep had seemed preposterous when there was such an incredible influx of data to sort through and to replay in his head over and over again.

  
He hadn't known it was possible to feel like this and the experience had left him overwhelmed. Now, with nothing but a simple touch, John had showed him how much more he didn't know, how much more was at stake - experiences he would forever refuse to have unless he could share them with John. John, and no one else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for your comments and kudos, you are wonderful!


	55. Part 10 - Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

It was late by the time they finally made it back to Baker Street. They had talked about ... well, everything, really. John's day at work, which led to an interesting conversation about rare diseases, followed by a discussion of whether or not Sherlock should buy a mini-fridge to keep the stuff for his experiments stored in instead of using the actual fridge in 221b, which John vehemently insisted was meant for actual food.

  
They had had this particular conversation several times before, but Sherlock had never been more inclined to listen and humour John in his wish.

  
Perhaps rare diseases - a topic later followed by deadly poisons - were not ideal conversation material for a date, but they had never adhered to society's normal rules and Sherlock quickly realised that there was no reason to change a running system. If they restricted themselves to boring topics such as the weather and people they both knew, they would be miserable and bored out of their skulls in under ten minutes.

  
Time flew by and before long they were the only guests left in the restaurant. They shared a bottle of wine and talked and laughed and Angelo left them well alone in their own private bubble of peaceful happiness. By the time John looked around and noted with surprise that they should be going, Sherlock already knew he had never had a better evening.

  
They were still talking as they walked home and - buoyed by the overall success of the evening - Sherlock reached out and grasped John's hand.

  
He held it loosely at first, giving John the opportunity to pull back. Instead, warm fingers linked with his and squeezed and he tightened his grip, feeling for the first time that he might take flight without having to rely on his wings at all.

  
"There is one thing I'm curious about," John said as they ambled along the street.

  
"Yes?"

  
"Why me? I don't mean _this_." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Why did Raphael and his friends go after me? Was it just because they hated you?"

  
Sherlock shook his head. "Oh. No. I ... uh, I am not allowed to tell you, actually. Suffice it to say that there is something you are intended to do that they would have preferred you didn't. A job offer, so to speak, that they would have liked for themselves."

  
He glanced sideways and was not surprised to find John staring at him. "That's it?"

  
"As far as I know, yes. You and I would have met no matter what, so they tore out my wings in the hopes of preventing me becoming your Guardian. Unfortunately for them, by the time they started putting their plan to corrupt your soul into motion, it was already too late."

  
John let out a shaky breath. "So ... all your suffering, all that pain ... was just to keep us apart?"

  
Sherlock thought about it, feeling his hackles rise. "Yes."

  
John nodded, his grip around Sherlock's hand tightening. "I'm glad you got to pay them back. And I'm glad they didn't succeed."

  
He could hear the anger in John's voice, the fierce protectiveness that had always shaped their relationship, and wished he could fuse their hands together.

  
"No," Sherlock agreed, still in disbelief that this was his life now. "They didn't succeed, and no one ever will."

  
They reached their front door far too soon for his taste - he didn't want to let go. Apparently, neither did John, for he unlocked the door with his other hand and dragged him upstairs, never once trying to free his hand until they were standing in their sitting room and the door to their flat was closed behind them.

  
For the longest time, they simply stared at each other, still dressed in their coats and shoes, cheeks flushed from the wine and the fresh air.

  
Sherlock watched the colour spread across John's features and wanted to reach out, to touch and trace the flush, to map out every line on his face with the tips of his fingers. He wanted to hold on and never let go, he wanted to spend the rest of eternity just staring at John.

  
He wanted.

  
He had no idea what his face betrayed, but John stared at him, his pupils dilating as Sherlock watched, breath coming faster. He wanted to press his ear to John's chest and listen to the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

  
John licked his lips.

  
Sherlock hummed.

  
Their lips met half a heartbeat before Sherlock's back hit the door and he barely noticed the latter, his brain going offline the same way it had the night before, his entire thinking narrowed down to lips and teeth and tongue and _hot, wet, more, yes._

  
He moaned, or maybe John did, but it didn't really matter because he could feel it vibrating in both their chests where they were pressed together. Not close enough, though. Impatient, he tugged at John's jacket, pulling it off his shoulders and down his arms before unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. His own coat followed suit and he couldn't free his arms from the sleeves fast enough, couldn't wait to claw at John's shirt with both hands to pull him closer, their mouths never once separating.

  
It was exhilarating. It was amazing. It was everything he had been waiting for.

  
They kissed as if they would never get the chance again and he wondered how he could have ever thought the concept of kissing was disgusting, weird and completely pointless. Perhaps he had needed John to figure out how amazing it was and how much he needed this.

  
Eventually, the need for air became too great and John tore his mouth away, gasping. "Sh-Sherlock."

  
He growled and traced his mouth along the line of John's jaw. If he couldn't touch his face with his hands, he might as well use his lips instead. John shuddered and moaned as he nipped at a particular spot below his ear, then jerked against him as he sucked at the side of his neck. "God, Sherlock."

  
"Not ... quite," he panted, unable to keep the satisfied smirk off his face. "But what a flattering comparison."

  
John's fingers wound through his hair, tugging gently until he pulled his head back and stared down at him.

  
"Slowly, remember?" John gasped. "We wanted to go slowly."

  
"This is slow," Sherlock told him. "We've barely made it past the door."

  
"Not what I meant," John said, chuckling, stroking Sherlock's cheek with one of his hands. "God, stop looking at me like that. You told me you want me to slow you down, remember? I'm not going to be very successful if you keep looking at me like that."

  
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, hoping that being cut off from the vision of John staring up at him with dark eyes and swollen lips would somehow make it easier to think rationally. "Right. You're right, of course. I just ... I want ... I can't ..."

  
He broke off, snarling in frustration at his inability to express what he wanted. How was he supposed to put words to something he hadn't known he could feel? Perhaps he should paraphrase. "I don't want you to leave."

  
"We've had this conversation already," John said gently. "No one's leaving. I'm not going anywhere."

  
"You're going upstairs," Sherlock argued, shaking his head. "I just ... I want ..." He grit his teeth, trying to find a way to say the words that wanted to get out. "Stay with me?"

  
John stared at him, pupils blown wide, and licked his lips. "We just agreed..."

  
"Not for ... that," Sherlock hastened to explain, feeling himself blush. "I just ... I want you near. If .. if that's all right."

  
He glanced away, suddenly too unsure of himself to continue looking at John. Perhaps this was too forward. This was not how people usually ended first dates, he knew. Usually, they went home, perhaps there was a kiss goodbye, but they would go home separately. Except he and John were already living together and the rules were blurry already.

  
"No, that ... that's fine." John sounded surprised but pleased and Sherlock's gaze snapped back to his face. "I didn't expect you to ... want that."

  
Sherlock blinked. How on earth had John not figured that out yet? "John ... I want absolutely _everything_ with you."

  
John smiled. "Well ... good then." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and tugged. "Come on, time to go to bed."

  
Sherlock followed him through the kitchen and down the hall into his own bedroom, taking a moment to stare and soak up the image of John sitting on the edge of his bed to pull off his shoes. He looked like he belonged there.

  
Hastily, before John could change his mind, Sherlock followed suit, toeing off his own shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. When he reached for his shirt buttons, John got up and grasped his hands.

  
"Let me?" It was a quiet request, hesitant, but he couldn't have denied it even had he wanted to.

  
Wordlessly, he dropped his hands, allowing John to undo the buttons of his shirt, reaching out to do the same for him. He worked slowly, reverently, allowing his fingers to brush against the warm skin he revealed with each button.

  
John hummed, making quick work of Sherlock's own buttons and brushing his shirt aside to unashamedly stare at his chest.

  
"I always liked that colour on you," he husked, confirming that Mycroft had been right. Sherlock shoved the thought of his brother away. There was no place for him here.

  
"But," John continued, "I think I like you even better without it."

  
Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes before John could see how deeply his words impacted him. When he opened them again, he focused on undoing the last of John's buttons, brushing the shirt off his shoulders and allowing his own to slide off as well. "Allow me to return the compliment," he murmured.

  
Golden skin and firm muscles, his stomach ever so slightly softened by two years of inaction, the scar on his shoulder ... he was the most perfect thing Sherlock had ever seen.

  
He wanted to reach out, to skim his hands across the wide expanse of warm skin and subtle strength, wanted to touch and explore every inch of John's body in every way possible, until he could draw him with his eyes closed.

  
Instead, he dropped his hands. _'Slowly'_ , he reminded himself. Tonight wasn't about that.

  
He reached for his belt instead, undoing the clasp and the button and zip of his trousers. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw John doing the same and almost forgot how to move his fingers. Somehow, he had managed to neglect the possible impact of John almost naked in his bedroom.

  
Fabric rustled as his trousers slid down his legs and pooled around his feet. He stepped out of them easily and sat on his bed, scooting backwards until he could lie down on his usual side. His eyes stayed fixed on John, watching as he stepped out of his jeans, all strong thighs and firm muscle and golden hair. He couldn't have looked away for anything and had to struggle not to stare at John's pants, wishing the garment far away, right along with his own.

  
_'Not tonight'_ he reminded himself again. He held out an inviting hand. "Join me?"

  
John did, easily crawling into bed beside him, dragging the covers over them both and turning to lie on his side, facing Sherlock.

  
"This okay?"

  
He shifted closer, turning so he mirrored John and sliding down until their heads were on the same level. "Almost perfect," he murmured.

  
John smiled and reached out, slinging one warm arm over Sherlock's waist, pulling him even closer, their legs tangling as they slotted together like matching puzzle pieces. Sherlock gasped, trying not to react too blatantly to their sudden proximity as heat seared through his entire body.

  
"There," John said softly. "Is this close enough?"

  
Sherlock sighed and buried his face in the crook of John's neck. "Not even remotely," he confessed. "But it will do for tonight."

  
John chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it."

  
The meaning behind the statement was too ambiguous for Sherlock's liking. Was he glad this was close enough? Or was he glad it was enough for tonight? He wanted to ask, but couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

  
Instead, he sighed again and pressed a fleeting kiss to John's collarbone.

  
"Good night, John."

  
John's voice was soft. "Good night, Sherlock."

  
He smiled, breathed in the scent of John, relishing in his proximity, his body one warm line of contact along his front. "Thank you."


	56. Part 10 - Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has gone up a notch.

**Chapter 8**

 

Pale morning light crawled through the gap in the curtains, creeping across the floor and the bed.

  
Sherlock had been watching its silent approach for the past hour, observing its progress across the bed and John's prone body next to his.

  
As the sun rose, the light turned golden, dipping John's skin in shades of honey.

  
He had been staring, completely mesmerised, for hours before the sun had come up. Every blink seemed like blasphemy, a moment where he closed his eyes to the sight before him. For the first time in his entire existence, Sherlock understood why people sometimes said they just wanted to stay in bed all day. He certainly had no interest in anything beyond the borders of the mattress.

  
It had taken several hours to run through his memories and determine that he had never before spent a better morning. And that included that one time he and Galileo had watched the sunrise and talked about science.

  
Despite himself, he reached out and traced the border of light and shadow on John's face with his index finger, barely touching his skin as he did so.

  
John sighed and turned his face into the touch, shifting closer towards him.

  
Sherlock froze, not daring to breathe for fear of having woken John, but he just sighed again and slept on.

  
It was ... nice, he decided. Having another person there with him. No one had ever slept with him, not like this. Not in any other way, either. No one who wanted to, at least. Mycroft had been forced to, back when they were still alive and their house had been too small to allow for more than one community bedroom where everyone slept in. But after that? It had always been him, and sleep had become something he did to pass the time, when the boredom became unbearable and the world scraped against his nerves.

  
But this ... this was different. This wasn't about sleep but companionship, something he had sorely missed for too long. And the fact that it was John sharing his space and his bed ... well, life could not possibly get any better than that.

  
John hummed and inched closer, a solid hardness pressing against Sherlock's stomach.

  
Or maybe it could, he amended, stifling a moan as he realised his own body was responding in kind.

  
That had never been an issue before either, but ever since John had walked into his life, he had found himself increasingly inconvenienced at the most unlikely times, much to his annoyance.

  
Now, there was no annoyance. There was only frustration and a want for something he couldn't quite define but that was unmistakably tied to John.

  
Before he could think himself out of doing it, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the scar on John's left shoulder, tracing its texture with his tongue as he mapped the precise shape in his mind.

  
John whimpered and shuddered, opening his eyes a bit to stare at him. "Hnngh."

  
Not very eloquent, but Sherlock took it as encouragement and continued, biting down gently and sucking some of the warm skin into his mouth. The reaction this gained was very interesting and he decided it was high time for him to brush up on reflexology.

  
He trailed his lips across John's collarbone, humming into the warm nook where neck met shoulder, and nipped his way up John's throat until he found that spot beneath his ear again that had John gasping his name and jerking against him. The resulting friction tore a groan from his own throat and he moved his mouth away, panting.

  
"That's one hell of a way to start the day," John said a little breathlessly. "Bloody hell."

  
"Not good?," Sherlock asked, worried.

  
"Perfect," John assured him.

  
A moment later, Sherlock found himself on his back, John looming above him with a grin and sparkling eyes. "Can't imagine a better way of waking up. Feel free to keep this up."

  
Feeling emboldened by the positive reception, Sherlock trailed one hand suggestively down John's side, slipping between their bodies. "This doesn't feel like it'll go down anytime soon," he murmured.

  
John huffed a laugh and bent down to kiss him, all teasing forgotten in the slide of lips and tongues.

  
Sherlock wanted to focus, to remember each and every detail, but he felt completely overwhelmed. There was too much - to many points of contact, his skin burning wherever John touched him, and most of his nerves seemed to have relocated into the uncomfortable confines of his pants, sending confusing messages of pleasure and pain that made no sense and only made him want more so he could figure out what the hell he was feeling.

  
One of John's hands was rubbing up and down his chest, roaming over his body as if he were a blind man reading braille, and Sherlock's entire body shook as those fingers brushed against one of his nipples. He hadn't known it would be like that. He knew how it was supposed to work in theory, of course, but reading about something and experiencing it for himself were two entirely different things and he felt helplessly lost in the sensation.

  
Blindly, he sought out John's mouth with his own again, kissing him for all he was worth, trying to somehow convey what he wanted without having to string words together - a task he wasn't sure he could accomplish right now.

  
The shrill sound of the alarm finally made them break apart and John cursed, his hand shaking as he reached for his phone and turned it off.

  
He groaned helplessly. "I need to go to work."

  
Sherlock wondered if arson was permitted under exceptional circumstances. If so, he'd burn down the bloody clinic himself. "Work later."

  
"I can't." John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's chest, clearly reluctant. "We're understaffed and I have to go in today. Bugger the clinic."

  
"I was hoping you'd bugger me instead," Sherlock muttered, only realising he had spoken out loud when John made a noise halfway between a laugh and a choke.

  
"Don't ... don't say that," he whined. "Seriously, I need to get up now, don't make this any harder."

  
"I think that's physically impossible," Sherlock confessed, feeling the blush rising in his cheeks.

  
John climbed off him with a pitiful noise of regret and rolled out of bed, much to their mutual disappointment. "I'll make it up to you," he promised, struggling to fasten his trousers over the bulge of his erection. "We did want to go slow, if you'll recall."

  
"Can't remember why I thought that was a good idea," Sherlock grumbled, curling up on his side and pressing his face into the pillow where John's head had rested all night. "Go and treat the sniffles, John. And while you do that, you can think _long and hard_ about who you could have been doing instead."

  
"Stop it with the innuendo," John complained, bending over him and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll see you later. Don't do anything dangerous without me there, all right?"

  
"I don't think I'm going to move, let alone leave the flat," came the muffled reply as Sherlock pulled the covers over his head. "When will you be back?"

  
"Early afternoon. Four at the latest," John promised. "I'll see you later. Don't set fire to anything."

  
He left before Sherlock could tell him that the only thing on fire was his libido - not something he was used to.

  
The door fell closed behind John and Sherlock listened to the faint sound of his feet on the stairs. He tried to curl up tighter but apparently his body hadn't yet gotten the message that sex was off the table. He whimpered as the fabric of his boxers brushed against his erection with each movement. For a moment, he contemplated reaching down and alleviating the problem by himself, but that didn't seem right and didn't sound half as satisfying as it would if John were still here.

  
Sighing, he forced his body into stillness, not moving a muscle and retreating into his mind palace as he waited for his arousal to abate.

  
*****

 

Time went by far too slowly to be allowed, John was sure of that. Several laws of physics had been grossly violated in order to keep him at the clinic until the end of all eternity - or until four pm, whichever came first - and the constant musings on what Sherlock might be doing right now didn't help his situation at all. The animal part of his brain had come up with a whole list of suggestive scenarios of what Sherlock might be doing right now and John had a hard time staying where he was.

  
Finally, when he had run a hand along his jaw half a dozen times to check if he had grown a beard yet, Sarah finally told him he could go home and he left so quickly he almost forgot his bag. He spent the walk to the Underground and the Tube ride thinking about how to make up for his disappearance that morning. He had some ideas, of course, but wasn't sure which ones were an appropriate apology while still going along with their decision to go slow.

  
Clearly neither him nor Sherlock actually wanted to adhere to that rule, but he thought they might as well try and get used to each other in this way. He had spent so long repressing everything he felt and desired about his best friend that the idea of suddenly being in a relationship with him took some getting used to. As for Sherlock himself ... well, according to his own words, he hadn't been in a relationship with anyone before. And of course there was the fact that theirs was not simply a relationship as other people ended up having. Other people didn't usually know their soulmates.

  
It was a term he still hadn't grown used to, something you found in cheap romance novels and movies, but not in real life.

  
Shaking his head to himself as he climbed up the stairs leading out of the Underground station, John shoved the thought aside and refocused on his ideas for a suitable apology.

  
He still hadn't quite decided when he entered 221b.

  
As it turned out, Sherlock had left the bed and thrown on some additional clothes at some point because he was lounging in his armchair, his laptop balanced on his knees. He raised his head and looked at John from behind the screen. "Had a nice day?"

  
"Terrible," John told him, taking in Sherlock's ruffled hair, creased t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. Clearly he had taken a shower at some point, given the fluffiness of those curls, and then pulled on whatever clothes were at hand.

  
The thought of Sherlock in the shower provided some interesting images to go along with and John decided that, at some point, a combined shower or bath would definitely have to happen. If nothing else, the water would at least prevent him from dying of spontaneous combustion.

  
He gestured towards the laptop. "Are you working on a case?"

  
"No," Sherlock said, frowning. "Why?"

  
"Put the laptop away, then," John ordered, shrugging out of his jacket and taking off his shoes. He locked the door to the flat behind himself and watched as Sherlock placed the laptop on the floor beside his chair.

  
The detective narrowed his eyes at him as John moved into the kitchen to lock the second door as well. "What are you doing?"

  
"Locking the doors," John said easily. "I thought that would be obvious."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "And why are you locking the doors?"

  
John shrugged. "I left you - well, both of us - in a pitiful state this morning. I thought I should probably make it up to you." He grinned. "And I really don't want Mrs Hudson or a client or Lestrade or anyone else to walk in on us."

  
His words clearly intrigued the detective and he watched as Sherlock shifted in his seat, stretching and bending his legs in turn as he appeared to consider getting up. That made the decision for him.

  
"Please, stay where you are." He could hear his voice go slightly husky as he stared at Sherlock and considered the possibilities.

  
Four quick strides and he was standing over him, reaching down to tilt Sherlock's head up as he bent to meet him in a searing kiss.

  
Sherlock moaned and John could feel the sound vibrating in the other man's throat where his hand was pressed against it. He hummed, his other hand sliding to Sherlock's nape, fingers burying themselves in soft curls.

  
By the time their mouths separated, he was straddling Sherlock's lap without realising he had moved, and Sherlock had both hands on his hips, holding on as if he were afraid he would get up and leave.

  
"I missed you all day," John whispered against his lips. "It felt like forever until I could finally leave."

  
A growl rumbled deep in Sherlock's chest. "I told you to stay. You should've called in sick."

  
John took that to mean that Sherlock had missed him too. Smiling, he kissed his way along his jawline and down that long, pale neck, his teeth scraping Sherlock's Adam's apple. The resulting moan was gratifying and he rolled his hips a little to let them both feel their mutual arousal.

  
Sherlock whined. "John ..."

  
"Shhh," he murmured, kissing him again. "We're going slow, just as we said we would. But this ... god, we both need this. You especially." He reached down, giving him one teasing stroke through his pajama bottoms. Sherlock bucked his hips in response and he chuckled.

  
He moved back, sliding off Sherlock's lap until he was crouched on the floor in front of him, his hands casually resting on Sherlock's thighs. "I hated leaving you alone in that bed this morning. I've been thinking about how to make it up to you all day and I think I've found something suitable."

  
Keeping his eyes on Sherlock's, he slowly moved his hands up and down those thighs, smiling in delight when Sherlock let them fall open on his own accord.

  
"John ..." His voice sounded strangled.

  
He smiled, using his right hand to trace the outline of Sherlock's erection through the cotton of his pajamas. "Yes?"

  
Sherlock let his head fall back and moaned. "God."

  
John winked, seeing a running gag in the making. "Not quite."

  
He continued his ministrations, stubbornly ignoring his own arousal, eyes locked on Sherlock's face to watch for any signs of discomfort. But all he saw were silver eyes blazing with need, pupils so far dilated there was little left of the iridescent irises.

  
Deciding to up the ante a bit, he leaned forward and nuzzled at the thin fabric, allowing his nose and mouth to brush along the hard ridge underneath. "God, you smell divine. I want to know if you taste the same."

  
Sherlock made a garbled noise that didn't even resemble words.

  
"Please," John murmured, "will you let me do this for you?"

  
He could feel Sherlock shuddering beneath his hands. "Hngh ... yes, oh god, yes, anything. John ..."

  
He smiled, ignoring the way his own heart was hammering in his chest. "Thank you. Now lift."

  
It was the work of a moment to grab Sherlock by the hips and drag his pajama bottoms down around his ankles, leaving him in his ratty t-shirt and black silk boxers that had probably been more expensive than half of John's wardrobe and looked decidedly uncomfortable right now.

  
He leaned forward and breathed, taking in the scent of musk and man and something quintessentially Sherlock that made his mouth water.

  
"Is this okay?"

  
"Yes," Sherlock panted, pupils blown wide with need. "Please."

  
John gave him a couple of firm strokes through his pants, reaching down to unbutton his own jeans with his left hand as he did. There was only so much he could bear and doing all this with his own erection trapped in his jeans was not going to happen.

  
_"Ahh!"_

  
"Shh, I've got you, I've got you," he murmured, returning his left hand to Sherlock's hip and giving him a reassuring squeeze.

  
"John..." He sounded wrecked already.

  
_'Well, this isn't going to take long'_ John thought. Not that he had expected otherwise, of course. Which was another reason he had wanted this - Sherlock needed time to get used to this and John didn't want their first time to end with both of them coming in their pants like bloody teenagers, which, granted, was very much a possibility right now.

  
"Ready?," he asked, tracing the waistband of Sherlock's boxers with his index finger.

  
"Please," Sherlock rasped. "I can't ... just _do_ something, Jo- _ohhh_!"

  
He groaned as, in one quick move, John dragged down his pants and lowered his mouth to his cock.

  
The noise Sherlock made was dangerously close to a sob and out of the corner of his eye John saw he was clinging to the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. But most of his attention was focused on smooth velvety skin stretched over the hard length in his mouth and he hummed in appreciation as he swirled his tongue around the head.

  
Sherlock's hips jerked, seeking more contact, and John had to hold on to his hips with almost bruising force to keep Sherlock in place and himself from chocking. One glance up at Sherlock's face told him it wouldn't be long now - his face flushed and the strain visible in his neck as he bent his head back, his eyelids fluttering, lips parted around each gasping breath.

  
Pulling back for a moment to take a deep breath, John summed up his courage and, holding firmly on to Sherlock's hips, lowered his head and took as much of him in his mouth as he dared.

  
It had been years since he had done this for anyone and, though not his favourite thing on earth, it was absolutely worth it just for Sherlock's reaction as John took him in as far as he would go and swallowed around him.

  
Sherlock screamed, his body tensing as release slammed into him, spilling down John's throat and forcing him to swallow around Sherlock's quivering length again. The resulting shudder seemed to rattle through them both.

  
He drew back slowly, keeping the head of Sherlock's cock in his mouth and carefully licking him clean as he took deep breaths through his nose. Sherlock whimpered as he finally released him and John reluctantly let go of his hips and stared up at him.

  
Slumped in his chair with his legs spread and pants around his ankles, Sherlock looked positively debauched and John groaned as he shoved one hand inside his open fly and beneath the waistband of his pants. Monitoring Sherlock's reactions had kept his own arousal from his notice but now there was nothing to distract him from the relentless throbbing of his cock and he closed his hand around himself with a sigh of relief, dropping his head to Sherlock's knee.

  
A shaking hand dropped onto his head, long fingers threading through his hair as Sherlock struggled to find his voice, humming in encouragement. "God, John, you're magnificent," he rasped, one finger tracing the shell of his ear as John sped up the movement of his arm, moaning.

  
"No one's ever done that for me," Sherlock continued, still sounding breathless. "And I'd reciprocrate but I'm afraid I can't move right now. I will, though, later. I promise."

  
John stared up at him, watching as Sherlock licked his lips, and the thought of those lips and that tongue on his cock were enough to push him over the edge, shaking and gasping as he clung to Sherlock's leg.

  
Slowly, the haze surrounding him retreated and he sat back, feeling a bit shaky. "Bloody hell."

  
Sherlock gave a wry chuckle. "If this is hell, I can't say I mind. Though I can't imagine how you ended up there."

  
"Seducing an angel," John gasped. "I bet there's a law against that."

  
"There isn't," Sherlock assured him, pulling his boxers and pajama bottoms back on and reaching out to drag John onto the chair with him, completely ignorant of the mess that was John's pants. Under the assault of Sherlock's lips on his, John quickly forgot all about it as well until they finally parted long enough for Sherlock whisper: "Thank you."

  
John grinned. "My pleasure."


	57. Part 10 - Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 

Any plans for a repeat performance - or, indeed, a continuation - had to be put on ice when Sherlock's phone alerted him to a text some twenty minutes later, just as he thought he might eventually regain his ability to move.

  
Of all the things he would have expected John to do, giving him a blowjob hadn't even made it close to the list. The fact that John was still capable of surprising him was delightful, but he hadn't been able to focus on it for too long. In fact, Sherlock was reasonably sure he had never spent such a long time not thinking at all while still being in an at least semi-conscious state.

  
Groaning, he reached for his phone and checked the text messages as John chuckled into his shoulder.

>   
>  _Found a dead body in a tree at Hyde Park. Want to come? - GL_

  
"What do you think?," he asked, angling the phone so John could see the screen. "Should I tell him I just did?"

  
John snorted, his entire body shaking with silent laughter, and Sherlock tightened his arm around him to keep him from sliding off the chair. The piece of furniture had clearly not been designed to allow two fully grown men on it, even though they were compromising by John basically sitting on top of Sherlock.

  
"You'd better not tell him that unless you want to answer one hell of a lot of questions at the crime scene," John told him.

  
He smirked. "True"

>   
>  _Be there in twenty. SH_

  
Hitting send, he dropped the phone onto the armrest and stretched as far as he could with John sprawled across him. He hadn't felt this relaxed in ... he didn't remember. Probably ever.

  
"I think you broke my brain, John."

  
"God, I hope not. You'd be unbearable without your mind. What would you do all day?"

  
"I've got an idea or two," Sherlock murmured, trailing a suggestive hand down John's side and groping his arse through his pants. The fact that he had yet to see John naked irked him, though not enough to make him complain about the way John had 'apologised' to him just now.

  
"This is very bad timing for a case to come up," he complained. "I had plans for you."

  
John smiled and stretched up to kiss his throat, licking and gently scraping his teeth over Sherlock's Adam's apple. He hadn't known that could be an erogenous zone, but there was no mistaking the pleasure tingling up and down his spine. Whimpering, he moved his head away.

  
"H-hold that thought," he murmured. "We need to get dressed and go to Hyde Park. There's a dead body waiting."

  
"Fine," John sighed, reluctantly disentangling himself from Sherlock and getting up. "But the next person who interrupts us will be turned into a dead body by me."

  
"At least we won't have to leave the flat to go to the crime scene," Sherlock grumbled. "If you killed them in my bedroom, we wouldn't even have to get up."

  
The heavy implication made John sway forward and kiss him so thoroughly, Sherlock's legs momentarily forgot their intended function and declined to cooperate, leaving him sprawled in his chair, his chest heaving as he fought for breath.

  
John stared down at him with dark eyes, the obvious want in them not helping at all. "God, you're gorgeous," he breathed. "What on earth did I do right to get you?"

  
"You're you," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "Far more important is the question what _I_ did to deserve you as my reward."

  
"We could argue about this all day and never come to a satisfying conclusion," John sighed. "Didn't you tell Lestrade we'd be there in twenty minutes? Best tell him it might be a bit longer, I think we could both do with a quick shower."

  
Sherlock licked his lips.

  
"Separately," John added sternly, turning towards the bathroom. "Or we're not going to be leaving here for hours, if at all."

  
"Killjoy," Sherlock accused his retreating back, hating himself for feeling a tiny bit relieved. He really didn't know what was wrong with him. After that mind-blowing experience just now, following ages of desperately wanting to have exactly what John was offering, he still felt hesitant and a bit apprehensive when it came to the thought of actual sex. And that would be fine, he supposed, if it didn't clash so badly with his body's want for precisely that.

  
Sighing, he reached for his phone and did what John had said.

>   
>  _Make that forty. SH_

  
Reluctantly, he struggled out of his chair and spread his wings to have something to catch him if his legs gave out. They didn't though, which was probably for the best. He had a feeling his wings weren't up to the task right now, either.

  
He stumbled into his bedroom on shaking legs, struggling out of his trousers and boxers and getting out fresh clothes. He stared down at himself, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that half an hour ago, his cock had been in John's mouth like it belonged there. The very thought was enough to redirect his blood flow away from his brain and he groaned, banging his head against the closet. "Not again."

  
The shower was turned off in the bathroom and a minute later he heard John exiting through the other door and disappearing up the stairs to get dressed. Sighing, he went and washed the traces of sex off his body, experiencing a completely irrational feeling of regret as all evidence of what John had done to him was erased from his skin.

  
He made quick work of it, not wanting to dawdle now that a dead body was waiting for him. Up in a tree in Hyde Park, eh? Not exactly a prime spot for a murder but he had seen weirder ones.

  
Within minutes, he had stepped out of the shower, towel-dried his hair and dragged on his usual outfit. He only paused long enough to check he had done up the buttons correctly, then pulled on his shoes and walked out into the sitting room to find John dressed and waiting for him, holding out his coat and scarf for Sherlock to take. He accepted them with a smile, a pleasant warmth curling in his stomach as their fingers brushed and John smiled back.

  
He could have this all the time now. This, and so much more, simply by asking. It was a heady feeling.

  
"Come on, then," he said, trying to sound like his usual self. "Let's see what levels of incompetence Lestrade and his team are desperate to present us with this time around."  
John laughed and shook his head at him but followed him all the same.

  
*****

  
"What the hell took you so long?," Lestrade demanded as they approached him. "I've sent that text almost an hour ago."

  
"Forty-eight minutes," Sherlock corrected, rolling his eyes. "There was traffic. And, surprisingly enough, John and I do have other things to do besides holding your hand while you look at dead people."

  
"Nice one," Lestrade grumbled. "You're grumpier today than you've been in a while."

  
He hesitated and Sherlock saw him glancing at John, who stood a couple of paces away and was talking to Donovan. "Everything all right between the two of you?"

  
"Perfectly so."

  
The DI instantly relaxed. "Good ... fine. That's good. Uh ..."

  
"What do you have for me, then?," Sherlock asked. "And it better be good."

  
Lestrade sighed and gestured towards the copse of trees behind him. "He's in there. Lucky coincidence someone found him at all before he got a chance to rot."

  
"Who found the body?"

  
"A young couple. Came there to have some alone-time. They're just getting started when the girl looks up and sees ... well. Ruined the mood a bit." He shrugged.

  
Sherlock didn't even pretend to understand - clearly the sex couldn't have been that good if the woman was still aware enough to notice a dead body in the tree above her. He was perfectly certain that he wouldn't have noticed a bomb going off in their kitchen, not while John was doing ... that. He shoved the thought away and reminded himself to focus on the case.

  
"John?"

  
"Right here," came the reply just behind him and he smiled, feeling something inside him relax that he hadn't been aware had been tense.

  
Lestrade led them through the trees, past milling officers and crime scene technicians who looked a bit lost.

  
"What's with them?," John asked, indicating a group of men in paper suits who were standing around and doing nothing.

  
"They're waiting for the hydraulic lift so the medical examiner can examine the body and they can gather evidence. It's not easy, getting that thing in here with all the bloody trees in the way."

  
He stopped, indicating a large oak before them. "There we are."

  
Sherlock tilted his head back, staring up into the leaves and branches. "Huh."

  
The man was suspended about eighteen feet above the ground, a growing puddle of blood at the foot of the tree suggesting that he had been rather badly injured somewhere. There were too many leaves and branches in the way to get a good view.

  
Sherlock sighed. "Fine, clear the crime scene. I'll take John up with me for a medical opinion. Can't have too many people around watching that."

  
"What?!" Lestrade and John exclaimed unisono.

  
He shrugged. "Well, what else do you want me to do? The hydraulic lift clearly isn't here yet. I, however, am. And so is the body. I really don't know why you wanted us to come so quickly if there's no way for me to access the body and therefore nothing I can do. Now clear the scene, keep Donovan here to make it all look more legitimate, and let me do my job."

  
There was nothing for Lestrade to say to that, so he just sighed and shooed everyone well out of sight, making Donovan help him keep everyone away for a bit.

  
"Uh, Sherlock," John began. "I really don't think climbing up there is such a good idea."

  
"Who said anything about climbing?," Sherlock asked, astonished. "Now don't panic."

  
And before John could utter any further objections, he had wrapped his arms around him and spread his wings, invisible and intangible due to the tree branches. He rose slowly, holding on tight to John who quickly wrapped his arms around his neck, cursing.

  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

  
"Well what else was I going to do?," Sherlock asked. "How you can forget this about me is really quite impressive, John. I think Lestrade has already succeeded in telling himself he was hallucinating at our last crime scene."

  
He tipped his head back to make sure he wouldn't smack into any branches on the way up, the dead body quickly coming closer. A middle-aged man, quite obviously dead.

  
"Well?," Lestrade called from down below as Sherlock helped John onto a thick branch right next to the trunk of the tree so he could stand there on his own and he would have his hands free.

  
"He got impaled on a broken-off branch," Sherlock called down. "John, anything about the cause of death?"

  
"Uh ... not sure, actually," John said, carefully moving to sit on the branch with his legs on either side so he could lean forward and examine the body. "He's a bit too cold for a dead body. Looks pretty fresh, too, so he can't have been here for very long." He frowned. "I don't think hitting the tree is what killed him. And there are signs of frostbite on his skin. A bit unusual for this time of the year."

  
Sherlock growled, scanning the body quickly before grabbing John and descending back to the ground with him. Lestrade stumbled back in shock as they came rushing down.  
"What the hell?!"

  
"He's an illegal immigrant, mid-thirties, snuck onto an aeroplane. Most likely hid in the wheel case and froze to death, then fell out when the case was opened and the wheels extended as the pilot initiated the landing procedures. As no one saw the body fall, I suppose it happened sometime last night or in the early morning hours. The body fell and just happened to end up in this tree. No murder."

  
"No murder?," Lestrade echoed, disbelieving.

  
"That's what I just said," Sherlock confirmed impatiently. "Dead body impaled on a tree. Not my alley, as the saying goes."

  
He stared at John, trying to somehow make him understand what he was really thinking, which was that on the list of things he wanted to be impaled on, a tree didn't make the cut.

  
John, bless him, did understand, judging by the way his eyes blazed.

  
Their gazes held and the air around them started to thicken as they both realised there was nothing keeping them here.

  
"Uh, Sherlock?," John piped up.

  
"Yes?"

  
"You can let go of me now."

  
Blinking, he realised he was still holding on to John, one hand precariously close to his arse. He didn't really want to let go, but did so reluctantly - better to keep John from getting angry. "If you insist."

  
"All right," Lestrade said loudly, clearing his throat. "Get a room, you two."

  
"We were about to, but someone had to text about a non-existent murder," Sherlock pointed out, completely unfazed by the DI's yelp and Donovan's muffled laughter.

  
John looked torn between embarrassment and amusement - in the end, he settled on exasperation. "Come on, you nutter, let's go home before I'm forced to do something indecent in public."

  
"I don't mind the presence of dead bodies while being 'indecent' in public - or in private," Sherlock helpfully informed him. "So long as they don't get in the way."

  
Lestrade took this as an excuse to hide his face in his hands and mutter "Oh for God's sake!" while Donovan had to turn away and hold on to a tree trunk to keep herself upright as she laughed.


	58. Part 10 - Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have upped the Rating again. I also haven't written or posted anything explicit before, so constructive criticism is welcome.

**Chapter 10**

 

It had already gotten dark when they made it back to Baker Street and despite the fact that neither of them had wasted much thought on eating - or maybe precisely because of that - they were both quite hungry now.

  
The door to their flat closed behind them with an air of finality and the tension seemed to skyrocket in an instant.

  
"So," John said, swallowing as he fought not to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Uh, how about dinner, then? The eating kind, I mean."

  
Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch at the additional clarification. Most people wouldn't think it was necessary to define the meaning of dinner, but the two of them had never been normal and the whole incident with Irene Adler would not be forgotten in a hurry by either of them.

  
"I'd love some," he answered, making sure to stare at John in the most suggestive way he could. He may not have a lot of experience in this area so far, but the list of ideas in his head was very long, very detailed, and very much focused on John.

  
"We've still got some of that Chinese take-out we had the other night," John suggested, his voice tremulous.

  
They shrugged out of their coats, pulled off their shoes and wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock cleared one half of the table and retrieved plates while John set about reheating the food, grumbling good-naturedly at having to remove a bag of toes from the fridge to reach the take-out.

  
"Time to get that mini-fridge you were going on about," he said lightly. "Or to put it to good use if you've already got it stashed away somewhere around here. The point wasn't for you to get a minifridge and then continue keeping your experiments in this one."

  
"I'll get around to that eventually," Sherlock promised, moving to stand behind John and deliberately pressing his front against John's entire back as he stretched to get glasses from the cupboard. "Right now, I don't care as long as the toes weren't actually _in_ the food."

  
"The- uh, they weren't," John breathed.

  
"Good." He gave John's hip a squeeze with his free hand, then moved away to put the glasses on the table. "Wine?"

  
"Just water, thanks."

  
Humming in approval, Sherlock poured them both water. John was right - tonight, there would be no alcohol, nothing to muddle their minds even in the slightest. Tonight, there would only be them. His heart rate picked up in anticipation.

  
Finally, the microwave pinged to announce their food was ready and they sat down at the table opposite one another, spreading their dinner between them. Armed with chopsticks they proceeded to dig in, eagerly attacking rice and noodles and chicken satay.

  
It was all fine until John raised a spring roll to his mouth just as Sherlock happened to glance up and catch the full visual. Even a day ago, the sight would not have had much of an impact on him. Today, however, with the memory of John's mouth on him still fresh in his mind, he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning in unison with John, who was clearly enjoying the food.

  
Admittedly, the thought of John biting down in that particular situation didn't seem quite so tempting, but clearly his body didn't care.

  
Deciding to retaliate, Sherlock picked up one of the satays, dipped it generously into the sweet-and-sour sauce and, once he was sure that John couldn't help but watch him, proceeded to lick the sauce off with an appreciative hum, swirling his tongue around the tip once before wrapping his lips around it.

  
John dropped the rice he had just picked up with his chopsticks, his hand visibly shaking.

  
Sherlock feigned a look of complete innocence.

  
"Everything all right, John?"

  
"You bloody bastard, you did that on purpose."

  
"Did what on purpose?," Sherlock asked, pretending to be very engrossed in dipping the remains of his satay into the sauce again. "This is very good food. I had not realised I was that hungry."

  
He licked a drop of sauce off his cupid's bow. "Why, was I distracting you from something?"

  
John groaned. "Don't tease, Sherlock."

  
"Only if you can promise the same thing," he countered, knowing full well that by now, everything John did would carry undertones of sex for him.

  
Apparently, John was well aware of that. "Bastard," he muttered, then resolutely turned his attention back to the food.

  
Sherlock decided to give him a break and, having finished his satay, loudly crunched a prawn cracker. He wondered why people had chosen to eat food that had the taste and consistency of polystyrene. It was one of these things where you felt inclined to eat several of the things just to make sure they really did taste the way your taste buds claimed they did.

  
It was bloody confusing at the best of times and right now was not a very good time to begin with. He watched John eat his rice and realised that the chopsticks themselves were highly offensive indeed.

  
He forced himself to look down at the food, proceeding to ignore John for the following minutes as he shoveled rice into his mouth and tried to ignore the sound in his head that reminded him very much of Irene Adler's triumphant laughter. Finally he knew why she had used dinner as her favourite euphemism. He hadn't been this turned on since ... well, since this afternoon, when John had come home from work and quite literally blown his mind.

  
From the sound of it, John was acting in much the same way, apparently having picked up on Sherlock's decision to hurry up and get dinner out of the way so they could have _dinner_ instead.

  
Never in the history of their flat share had the plates been cleared and the dishes done faster or with more enthusiasm. And if Sherlock managed to splash his white shirt with water all over his chest, well, that hadn't been done on purpose at all.

  
"You're a terrible tease," John told him in the same tone of voice he used to call him brilliant. Sherlock decided the words were synonymous in this case.

  
"Then you'd better finish drying the dishes so you can stop me from teasing," Sherlock suggested and unbuttoned his shirt. "Ugh, now I'm all wet."

  
"I really hate you sometimes," John sighed, put down the dish towel and declared: "The rest of the dishes can very well dry on their own. And we need to get you out of that wet shirt before you catch a cold."

  
"My trousers may also have caught some of the water, I'm afraid," Sherlock informed him innocently. "What do you prescribe for that, doctor?"

  
John grinned. "Instant removal of all clothes and sharing of body heat."

  
"Only a fool argues with his doctor." Grabbing John's hand, Sherlock pulled him out of the kitchen, down the hall and into his bedroom.

  
*****

 

John kicked the bedroom door closed behind them and promptly found himself pushed against the hard wood as Sherlock descended on him like a starving man on a feast.

  
Sherlock all but tore his jumper and t-shirt over his head and John yelped as their naked chests collided, Sherlock's skin still cold from the dishwater. He managed to get a hold of the shirt and help Sherlock tug it off, but whatever happened to the garment afterwards didn't register as their mouths met in a furious clash of lips and tongues and teeth.

  
A breathless moan reverberated in the air around them, but John would have been hard-pressed to tell which one of them had made the noise in the first place. It didn't matter.  
Nothing mattered anymore but the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on his and the delicious skin-on-skin contact everywhere they touched.

  
"God, I've been waiting for this for so long," that deep baritone rumbled in his ear just before Sherlock nipped at his throat and John arched against him.

  
"Yessss."

  
There was nothing else he could possibly say - Sherlock _had_ been waiting for a long time, after all. So had he, though of course the two were beyond compare. "Should've done this ... ages ago," he gasped, biting down on Sherlock's collarbone.

  
"You were the one who - _ahh!_ \- claimed he wasn't gay," Sherlock moaned against his skin.

  
"I'm ... not," John told him. "I'm bisexual. That's an actual thing, you kno- _Oof_!"

  
The latter was said because Sherlock had successfully manoeuvered them to his bed and pushed John down onto the mattress.

  
"Less talking," the detective growled. "More touching."

  
John thought that Sherlock, for someone who hadn't done this before, was very eager to get started. Then Sherlock was hovering above him with his lips on John's chest and he decided that thinking was overrated. Why bother using your brain when you had Sherlock Holmes lightly sucking on your nipple? Exactly.

  
"Oh, god." He thought that was a sensible enough response and his hands roamed helplessly over Sherlock's shoulders and back, trying to find something to hold on to.

  
"I've been waiting for _you_ for so long, John," Sherlock breathed against his skin. "I waited through the rise and fall of Rome and the British Empire and two world wars and two thousand three hundred years in total and I will savour this moment."

  
"Y-you will?," John asked, quite distracted by the nimble hands undoing the button of his trousers.

  
"Ohhh yesss," Sherlock hissed. "I want to map every inch of your body, John, until I can recognise you by your left armpit and know how many freckles there are on your back. And I don't care how long it takes."

  
"Nnnngh," John said, very intelligently, as he got divested of his trousers and pants simultaneously. Sherlock was pressing him into the mattress, face only inches away from John's flushed face, his pupils so far dilated John could only make out a hint of a silver ring around them.

  
"All right?"

  
"God, yes!"

  
He didn't know why he agreed to such torture - because that was what it turned out to be as Sherlock, who had somehow managed to kick off his own trousers and was down to his pants now, proceeded to spread him out on the bed and do a very thorough investigation of his body, stroking across sensitive flesh and drawing patterns onto the skin of John's stomach as his tongue traced the outline of the scar on his shoulder. It was ... worshipful, John thought drowsily.

  
It wasn't usually his style to lie back and let his partner do all the work, but this time there seemed to be nothing he could do but let Sherlock study his body. Perhaps, he thought, it made Sherlock feel more secure and less nervous about this entire thing if he got to investigate John like a crime scene beforehand, learning all the clues to his reactions.

  
For lack of something else to do, he pushed one of his hands up Sherlock's neck and buried it in the soft dark curls at his nape, touching and stroking and gently pulling in approval as Sherlock's mouth moved across his shoulders and chest, warm lips and wet tongue leaving a blazing trail of need in their wake. He desperately wanted more.

  
"Sherlock..."

  
"Hmmm."

  
Those lips were trailing along his left hipbone, tantalisingly close to his straining erection. He could just about feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's skin on his own and it drove him crazy. "Please."

  
"Want something?," Sherlock murmured, his breath ghosting across John's engorged flesh.

  
"Hnnng!"

  
"Was that a yes?"

  
"Bloody hell, yes! Oh god..."

  
He wanted to say more, do more, beg Sherlock to please just touch him, anything, just stop being such a fucking tease already. He didn't get a chance to voice any of that, any understandable articulation lost in a shout as Sherlock's lips wrapped around the head of his cock and the edge of his vision turned white.

  
"Fuck!"

  
Both of Sherlock's hands shot out to grasp his hips to keep him from bucking, his thumbs drawing lazy circles on John's skin even as he held him down with surprising strength.

  
His next moan was almost a sob as Sherlock sucked, his tongue swirling around the glans.

  
"Uh... ahhh fuck ... _Sherlock_!"

  
In a way, it was even worse than the teasing had been because now Sherlock definitely wasn't teasing anymore. Those eyes were sparkling with lust and curiosity and in a moment of clarity John understood that this was something new and intriguing to his friend. Something that demanded thorough examination. He groaned and dropped his head back onto the pillow, unable to stand the sight of Sherlock's lips stretched around his cock for even a moment longer without coming like a teenager.

  
Being unable to see only increased his other senses, however, and he felt his legs shake as Sherlock hummed around him.

  
"Nngh, stop!"

  
Sherlock froze, his eyes snapping open to meet John's gaze as he raised his head again. He pulled off John's cock as if he had been burned.

  
His face fell. "I'm sorry, I thought ..."

  
"God, no, stop right there," John panted. "Just ... if you want this to go further, you have to stop doing this or I'll come like a bloody teenager."

  
Sherlock's grin lit up the room. "Oh, is that all?" His relief was obvious, but a moment later he frowned. "I wasn't done mapping you out yet."

  
The shiver running down John's spine had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature in the room. "I promise you have all the time in the world to do that. Probably literally, considering who I'm talking to. Now stop looking at me like this and get rid of those pants of yours. Why are you even still wearing them?"

  
Sherlock shrugged, apparently at a loss for an answer.

  
"Come here," John demanded, gripping his arms and urging him up so he could kiss him. "God, I could do this for hours."

  
Sherlock moaned in response and squirmed against him, the strained fabric of his pants rubbing against John's cock and making them both gasp.

  
"Perhaps another time," John murmured, trailing both hands down Sherlock's body until he could hook his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. "Can I take those off?"

  
"Please." The word was a warm brush of air against his throat, followed by lips and teeth on his collarbone. He whined and pulled, getting no small thrill of satisfaction when Sherlock yelped and jerked against him as the waistband of his pants brushed against his erection. "John..."

  
"Hmm?" He shoved the pants down as far as they would go, allowing Sherlock to take them off with a quick motion of his legs before dragging him close and allowing one hand to sneak between their bodies.

  
"I-" Sherlock broke off with a groan and dropped his forehead to John's chest, his hands clenching in the sheets. "I want you."

  
"I should hope so," John joked. "Quite an awkward situation otherwise, what with both of us naked in your bed and all."

  
"John..."

  
He kissed Sherlock's temple and stroked down his bare back, still amazed that he was allowed to do this. "How would you like me then?"

  
There was a moment's hesitation as Sherlock considered his question. Then, swallowing audibly, he rolled around, pulling John with him until Sherlock was the one reclined on the mattress, staring up at John and licking his lips nervously.

  
"I want you under my skin or as close to that as you can possibly get." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "If it's all right with you, I think I'd like to try it the other way round sometime, but tonight I just want you so deep inside me I won't be able to tell where I end and you begin." He liked his lips again. "Is ... is that acceptable?"

  
John stared down at the impossible man in his bed, offering everything he had and asking if that might be something John wanted. It took everything he had not to laugh with delight or burst into tears.

  
*****

 

Sherlock lay motionless, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared up at John, waiting for his answer.

  
It had always sounded intriguing to him, this idea of having someone inside his body, complete acceptance of and surrender to another person. The _right_ person. It was yet another reason he had waited for so long, had wanted to make sure he had found that right person. And, as luck would have it, there was John in all his male glory, wanting him in return.

  
John, who was staring down at him as if Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Like he couldn't believe his luck. That was good, wasn't it?

  
A moment later, he stopped worrying because John's mouth had descended on his, engaging him in a passionate kiss that made his toes curl and hips jerk and quite effectively stopped all unnecessary higher brain functions.

  
"God, yes," John gasped against his lips in between kisses. "You have no idea... god. Look at you. How could anyone say no to that?"

  
Sherlock didn't know. He also didn't care. John wanted him and that was enough. Now if only he'd get on with it.

  
"John ..." He bucked his hips, grasping John's arse with both hands and pulling him down, the friction almost unbearable by now. _"Please."_

  
John whined and tore his mouth away from where he had been sucking on Sherlock's throat. "Lube? Tell me you have lube around here somewhere."

  
"Nightstand," Sherlock told him. "Top drawer." He had his online research to thank for this - lube, everyone everywhere had agreed, was absolutely necessary, so Sherlock had gone and found some on the off chance that he might get the opportunity to make use of it.

  
A strangled noise tore from his throat as John leant over him, pulling the drawer open and searching blindly for the bottle before giving a triumphant cry as his fingers closed around it.

  
"What about condoms, Sherlock? Got any of those, too?"

  
"Whatever for?," he asked, puzzled. "Neither of us can get pregnant and I can neither get sick nor carry illnesses. We're as safe as it is possible for two people to be."

  
John blinked, thinking that over. "Can't argue with that."

  
"Now, will you please get on with it?," Sherlock demanded, feeling his already elevated heart rate increase further at the prospect of what they were about to do. "I've had quite enough of waiting."

  
"Bossy sod," John grumbled but obediently flicked open the cap of the lube. "It's already been opened." He sounded surprised.

  
"I tested it to make sure I'd got the right stuff," Sherlock said. "It seemed to do the trick."

  
"You ... tested it," John repeated.

  
"Yes. Not on my body, though," he explained. "I just ... rubbed it between my fingers to see what it felt like."

  
John smiled. "Of course you did."

  
The fondness in his eyes made warmth unfurl in Sherlock's abdomen, spreading outwards until he felt he must surely be glowing with the effects of John's praise. He was so caught up in the feeling he actually missed John smearing his fingers and depositing the bottle on the mattress next to Sherlock's hip, but a moment later those same slick fingers unerringly found their way between his legs and he let them fall open further, gasping at the sensation of cool gel and warm fingers right where he had hardly even dared to dream of anyone touching him.

  
"'s this all right?," John asked, sounding strained as he moved his index finger in a gentle caress over Sherlock's perineum and further back.

  
He threw his head back and groaned in response, hips stuttering forward in search of more. " _John...!_ "

  
"I've got you," John panted. "For god's sake, tell me if it hurts and I'll stop."

  
Making John stop was the last thing on Sherlock's mind and he shook his head wildly, trying desperately to find the words he needed to ask for what he wanted. They wouldn't come. He forgot all about how speech worked, too lost in the novel sensation of John touching him like that.

  
And then the tip of John's finger slipped inside and Sherlock wouldn't have been able to speak even if he had known what to say. There was a high-pitched, keening noise coming from somewhere and it took him an embarrassingly long time to figure out he was the one making it, but by then John's finger had breached him all the way to his second knuckle and surely that shouldn't feel so good, surely that shouldn't make him want to beg and plead and promise John a kingdom if only he didn't stop.

  
There was too much going on in his own body, too much to be felt and catalogued and analysed, all at the same time, and Sherlock got lost for a little while until the faint twinge of further intrusion pulled him back from the brink and he realised that John had added a second well-slicked finger to the mix, moving them in and out with a slight scissoring motion that had Sherlock gasping and clutching the sheets in utter desperation.

  
"Almost there," he heard John's reassuring voice through the thick fog muddling his brain and oh god oh god there were three and that was decidedly uncomfortable and he opened his mouth to tell John, but by then the burning sensation of the stretch was already gone and all he managed to get out was a noise suspiciously close to a sob. He was so close he could feel it burning at the end of his spine, just waiting for that one last trigger that would send him over the edge - but it didn't come.

  
It took him several long seconds to realise John was calling his name.

  
"Sherlock? Sherlock ..."

  
"Nngh," he made, unable to form words.

  
"I need you to do something for me," John told him, voice husky and strained as if he had just run a marathon.

  
Sherlock tried to focus on getting the word out. "Anything." John could ask him to slaughter a village and he would promise to do it right now. Anything, if only he didn't stop touching him.

  
A moment later, he became aware of the fact that John's fingers within him had stilled and his other hand was stroking along Sherlock's shaking flank in a soothing motion.

  
"What's the atomic weight of aluminium?"

  
"Huh?"

  
"Focus, Sherlock," John told him. "I need you to focus on that because you're _this_ close to coming and that's not what we want, is it?"

  
Sherlock wanted to tell him that it was very much what he wanted, but then he caught sight of John's dilated pupils and felt his hard cock nudge against his calf and he remembered something he wanted even more than to come right this second. Oh, dear god.

  
He bullied his mind into giving him the answer he needed. "26.9815385."

  
"And that is what?," John asked.

  
"The at-atomic weight o-of alum-aluminium," Sherlock gasped and then groaned as John scissored his fingers again.

  
"Tell me more."

  
Sherlock did. He stammered and stuttered his way through all the elements of the periodic table in alphabetical order and John continued to twist and thrust his fingers inside him in reward for every answer. Sherlock had never loved nor hated chemistry as much as he did in that moment and he wouldn't have asked John to stop for anything.

  
And then he reached the end of the table and there were no further atomic weights to recite and John twisted his fingers with a very concentrated look on his face and the tip of his index finger brushed against Sherlock's prostate and he shouted as stars exploded across his vision.

  
"There we are," John said happily. "I couldn't risk doing this to you sooner. God, Sherlock."

  
He couldn't reply, simply lay there, panting and whimpering as his brain tried to make sense of the electricity shooting through his veins.

  
A moment later, John's fingers disappeared from his body, leaving him disturbingly empty and aching.

  
"John ... please ..."

  
"Yes, just a moment," John rasped and there was the distinctive click of the lube lid being opened and closed, followed by the obscene sound of John slicking himself up with a gasp and a moan.

  
Sherlock shifted, wriggling his hips to get closer, have John there faster, anything. "Please, John."

  
"Last chance to back out," John told him, moving up on Sherlock's body until he was bracing himself on the mattress next to his shoulder with one arm.

  
"Never," Sherlock gasped. "Stop ... teasing."

  
His only consolation was that John looked as wrecked as he felt and a moment later it didn't matter anymore as John finally, finally entered him with aching slowness. For a moment, all Sherlock could do was lie there and let it happen and try to compute this sensation of having John Watson breaching his body. But very soon it wasn't enough, not even close, and he thrust his hips up in impatience, taking him in deeper.

  
_"Ohhhh god!"_

  
_"Fuck!"_

  
They were both cursing and sweating and shaking but it didn't matter because this ... this was what Sherlock had been waiting for all his life.

  
The sense of connection was so powerful, it wiped away the imprints left by any other emotional connection he had ever formed, leaving nothing but pale memories behind as his entire being zeroed in on this - John, glorious, gorgeous John, his soulmate, buried so deep within him there was no way anyone could possibly separate them ever again.

  
"All right?," John panted, looking as amazed as Sherlock felt.

  
Sherlock stared up at him and said the first thing that went through his head. "I love you."

  
John laughed, a sound of pure joy, and then he started to move and Sherlock wouldn't have minded - or noticed - the entire world dissolving. He reached out blindly, grabbed hold of John's shoulder and back, and held on tight, trying to pull him closer.

  
Something about that movement made John shift and the next thrust had him brushing against Sherlock's prostate again and his mind blanked.

  
There was a hoarse shout that might have been a name and what felt like his lower body detonating and then the pleasure broke over him like a giant wave, sweeping away everything.

  
*****

 

John woke to the realisation that the world had changed on some fundamental level that no one outside of this room could possibly understand. He was stark naked and the sensation of the bed beneath him told him they had slept on top of the covers instead of underneath them. Yet he wasn't cold at all. When he opened his eyes, he discovered the reason for the surprising warmth.

  
Sherlock lay next to him, curled up as close beside him as he could possibly get, eyes closed and breathing even, the expression on his face peaceful. One huge wing arched around his body, covering John like a secure, warm blanket. The tips of the soft feathers tickled John's skin and it took him a moment to realise that this was what had woken him in the first place. Blinking lazily, he rubbed the itching spot on his side, adjusted the feathers slightly and turned his attention back to Sherlock.

  
It was almost surreal to see his face so peaceful. The same face that had been twisted in helpless lust mere hours earlier as Sherlock gasped and panted and moaned beneath him, John's name falling from those plush lips like a prayer for absolution.

  
He remembered every moment with perfect clarity, that mouth on his and the way Sherlock had choked out his name as he had fallen apart beneath and around John's body, muscles twitching and fluttering around his length. No one would ever manage to steal this memory from him for as long as he lived - and probably after, if John had anything to say about that.

  
Despite himself, he bent forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, smiling as he felt the huge wing curl tighter around him in response. It was not something he was used to, sharing a bed with someone who had additional limbs. At the same time, he couldn't quite remember what it had been like before. It didn't seem very desirable, now that he thought of it. Boring. Ordinary. Human. Everything Sherlock wasn't.

  
He reached out and traced along one of those prominent cheekbones with the tip of his index finger. Sherlock sighed and turned his face into the touch, seeking out more contact like a cat. John was more than happy to give it, stroking his cheek and running his fingers through Sherlock's thoroughly mussed curls. Satisfaction made his stomach clench. He had done this. He was responsible for Sherlock's debauched state. Because Sherlock had wanted him to do this. Him and no one else.

  
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. "Only you."

  
For a moment, John thought Sherlock had somehow read his mind before realising he had voiced his thoughts. He leaned forward and kissed him, this time on the lips. "I'm glad."

  
Sherlock smiled, slotting their legs together and lazily rolling his hips against John's, making him moan. "So it seems."

  
"Tease," John gasped.

  
"Only if I don't plan on going any farther than this," Sherlock murmured against his neck. "As it happens, I do."

  
"You're insatiable," John grinned, reaching down and grabbing Sherlock's hip to still his movements. "God, the things you do to me."

  
"I've got a lot of time to make up for."

  
"Mmmh, over two thousand years."

  
Sherlock shook his head. "Merely the four years of our acquaintance and my absence," he corrected. "As I said - I don't want anyone else."

  
John smiled, brushing an errant curl out of Sherlock's face. "Well said." He paused. "Could you say it again? My name?"

  
Luckily, Sherlock immediately understood what he meant and John's name in ... what was the name of the angels' language? Did it even have a name? ... was really quite nice falling from his lips. He smiled. "You'll have to teach me yours one day. But not now. I've got plans for you."

  
He gasped as Sherlock flipped him onto his back, hovering above him, all smiling eyes and soft skin and lean muscles. No wings.

  
"No," John said, smoothing his hands over Sherlock's back. "Bring them back."

  
Sherlock hesitated. "Are you sure?"

  
"Of course. They're part of you. I -" He swallowed. "I love all of you. Wings included. I don't want anyone else, either."

  
There was no response.

  
He blinked. Waited. "Sherlock?"

  
Still nothing. Sherlock was staring down at him, his mouth slightly open, and didn't seem to hear him at all.

  
"Sherlock, are you all right?"

  
Finally, he seemed to snap back into himself. "Really?" His voice sounded painfully small.

  
"What really?"

  
"You ..."

  
Oh. _Oh!_

  
He hadn't said it back last night, mostly because he had been too overwhelmed by the combination of hearing Sherlock say it and being inside him at the same time. Both on their own were more than enough to make anyone forget speech, but together they had switched off his brain function.

  
"Yes, of course. _Of course_ I love you." He cupped Sherlock's cheek in his hand. "You didn't actually think I didn't, did you?"

  
Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't need to. The look on his face was answer enough and John wanted to kick himself all over again for the careless way in which he had disregarded and ignored this amazing man's blatant affection. How different would their lives have been if only he had been a little more forthcoming about his own desires? If he had pushed Sherlock into making a move long before St. Bart's? They would never know.

  
"God, Sherlock, look at you. You're magnificent. I wouldn't trade you for anyone or anything in this universe." He considered. "Perhaps I should show you again," he suggested. "The way I did last night. I could start on your right foot, work my way up to your forehead and back down along the left side of your body. It might take hours this time around."

  
There was a low moan and Sherlock ground their hips together, fabulous friction cutting off John's thought process.

  
"Later," Sherlock panted. "You can do that later. I hate waiting, John."

  
John grinned. "I'll teach you all about delayed gratification," he promised. "We've got ages for that. I'll make use of every sodding minute we don't spend working on a case."

  
Sherlock hummed, one large hand wrapping around John's cock between their bodies. "I think I just want to spend the next decade or so in bed."

  
John gasped. "Fine by me. Now let me show you how much I love you before my muscles turn to jelly."

  
There were no words spoken for a while afterward but John discovered that Sherlock's wings really were very sensitive indeed.


	59. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

  
_“I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses...the smell of your hair, the taste of your skin, the touch of your breath on my face. I want to see you in the final hour of my life...to lie in your arms as I take my last breath.”_  
_\- Lisa Kleypas_

 

*****

  
"Sherlock? Where the hell are you?"

  
"Up here!," came the muffled reply from somewhere above.

  
John sighed and exchanged a glance with Lestrade. "Turn your back on him for half a second and he disappears," he grumbled, the corners of his mouth betraying his amusement with a twitch.

  
The DI grinned back. "Better go after him before he manages to antagonise Mr Calcín and I end up filing reports on an assault for the rest of the day instead of getting any actual work done."

  
They turned towards the vast winding staircase in the mansion that was the latest location starring in their current investigation of a particularly cunning robber.

  
By the time they reached the top of the stairs and paused to look up and down the long hallway, John was slightly out of breath.

  
"I'm getting too old for this," he huffed. "It's ridiculous. I've spent the past ten years running after this madman, you'd think I'd be in better shape."

  
"Middle age gets to us all," Lestrade told him, equally out of breath. "What am I supposed to say? And I have to say these past ten years have been remarkable."

  
"How so?"

  
The DI shrugged. "Well, you should've ended up in hospital at least four times this past year alone. I thought you were gone for good when that guy shoved you down the stairs. But you just got up and brushed yourself off as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile Sherlock looked like he'd been the one to take a tumble. Not that it would kill him, of course."

  
John didn't know what to say to that - they had never explicitly explained the nature of their peculiar relationship or the effect it had on them both when John got hurt. He shrugged instead.

  
"You know what he's like."

  
"Completely besotted with you, yes," Lestrade said, smirking. "Everyone knows that."

  
John sighed. "It does go both ways, you know?"

  
"There you are!," Sherlock's voice interrupted them and they turned to see the detective peering out of one of the rooms. "I found the window he used to sneak into the house unnoticed."

  
"But we're two floors up!," Lestrade complained as they approached. "How can he possibly have done that?"

  
Sherlock gave him one of his trademark _'You're an idiot'_ looks. "You have seen the house when we arrived, haven't you? Anyone with a bit of experience in rock climbing could have scaled these walls. Mr Calcín really should invest in a proper security system for the upper windows and the problem will not recur."

  
"I'll let him know," Lestrade said, relieved. "Is there anything you can tell me about the intruder? I'm sick of chasing the guy through all of London's mansions."

  
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll jump down and try to climb back up, see where the most likely footholds are. That might give us a hint as to his approximate size."

  
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," John grumbled.

  
"Like what? Don't you want me to find the robber?"

  
"I do. I just don't want you to say you're going to jump out of a second floor window to do it."

  
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, caught the look on John's face and quickly changed track. "I understand. But you do see how it will be conductive to the case?"

  
"If I may make a suggestion," Lestrade interrupted, uncomfortable as always when there was any reference to Sherlock's nature. "Why don't you walk down the stairs and go out the front door and around the side of the house like a normal person?"

  
Sherlock shook his head. "It won't do. He hasn't done that. He'll have left the same way he went in, so-"

  
He broke off.

  
"So?"

  
"So I don't need to jump," Sherlock concluded. "John, would you very much object to me climbing down from this window? There are no negative associations to me climbing, are there?"

  
John sighed. "Fine. But be careful, all right?"

  
The soft look on Sherlock's face was answer enough before he strode over to the already open window and hopped onto the sill. In moments like this, when his friend demonstrated his unnatural agility, John found it hard to believe that ten years had passed since he had learned of his partner's true nature. True to his word all those years ago, Sherlock was aging - or at least outwardly pretending to. There were a handful of grey hairs in his unruly mop of curls now and a few lines around his eyes and mouth. Other than that, he looked much the same. The ability to appear to age was rather important when one was practically immortal and seeking to conceal that fact.

  
There was no such concealment in his movements, however, and John leaned out of the window to watch him climb down with all the grace and agility of a much younger man than he pretended to be. If he were human, he should be in his mid-forties by now.

  
John watched as Sherlock paused halfway down the house, the fingers of his left hand curled around the ornamental stone carvings as he used his right hand to take a closer look at something on the wall through his magnifying lens.

  
"Careful!," John called down. Years of watching Sherlock do insane and death-defying things at great heights had not been sufficient in helping him overcome his inherent fear of Sherlock falling to his death. Hell, even being held safely in Sherlock's arms as his wings carried them over open fields in the Scottish Highlands had not been sufficient.

  
"I'm fine," Sherlock called back. "See?" For a second, he allowed his wings to be visible, spread wide and beating lazily to help him keep his balance. A moment later, they were gone again.

  
John sighed, feeling the knot in his chest loosen a little. Of course Sherlock was fine.

  
"Got anything?," Lestrade asked, leaning out of the window beside him.

  
"A bloody fingerprint," Sherlock said, raising his voice to be heard. "Looks like he cut his finger on a sharp edge where some of the stone came away." He pocketed his magnifying lens and pulled out a fingerprint kit.

  
John bit his lip to keep from calling out another warning as Sherlock let go of the wall and used both hands in order to use the kit. He didn't even sway, staying upright with his feet wedged into footholds provided by the stone carvings.

  
Minutes later, he climbed back up and John and Lestrade stepped back from the window to allow him to come back inside. "That should help you identify our climbing robber," Sherlock said, handing the finger print to the DI. "It is highly likely he has been caught before so his fingerprints will be in the system. After that it's just a matter of finding him. Come along, John."

  
John looked at Lestrade, shrugged and followed his partner out of the room and down the stairs.

  
"You know, that fingerprint was almost at the bottom," he said calmly. "You could have walked around the house and seen it from below."

  
"I know," Sherlock grinned. "But where would be the fun in that? Now stop arguing and let's get home. That's another case solved and I think we should celebrate."

  
John smirked. That was one thing that had definitely changed for the better since they had embarked on a relationship: Sherlock went out of his way to find reasons to 'celebrate'.

  
*****

 

The fire in the crate was crackling cheerfully, sending blazing heat along John's skin where he sat, his armchair as close to the fire as possible without accidentally setting it aflame. He closed his eyes in bliss as the heat seemed to thaw his very bones.

  
It was a particularly cold winter and more often than not John wished they had taken the time to do renovations on 221 Baker Street and upgrade the central heating and insulation to something more state-of-the-art. Somehow, they had never gotten around to doing so.

  
The front door banged open and closed downstairs and there were quick steps on the stairs as Sherlock bounded up the two flights like the young man neither of them was anymore. A minute later, he came bounding back down.

  
John smiled and opened his eyes in time to watch his husband stride into the room, his unruly curls a shock of white over the upturned collar of his dark coat. The lines on his face were far more pronounced now and John peered up at him through his now permanent glasses. When Sherlock took the stairs like that, it was easy to imagine they were still young and careless, ready for the next adventure.

  
They weren't, however. Forty-five years spent together had taken their toll. John was eighty-three and well past the point where chasing criminals was a reasonable way to spend his time. Lestrade had died mere months ago, taking their last connection to Scotland Yard with him and although Sherlock had assured John that of course he could always get in contact with him, the former consulting detective was not eager to do so. Leaving John now was not something he planned on doing, he had made that very clear. There was no way of telling how much time may pass and he wouldn't risk it.

  
Instead of solving crimes, Sherlock now spent his days up in the attic where one window was always kept open so the bees could come and go as they pleased. Keeping bees on the rooftops had been an increasing trend in cities around the world and Sherlock had latched onto the possibility of finally being able to have his own bees without having to give up his beloved London in a heartbeat.

  
It didn't matter that he had to tackle more stairs these days - ever since John's knee surgery they had been living in Mrs Hudson's old flat, keeping their housekeeper's ashes in an urn on the mantelpiece. There had been a very long, very stern discussion with Sherlock about the possibility of experimenting on human ash. The beginning and end of that discussion had been that there was absolutely zero possibility of that happening and that John would call the fire brigade to get rid of the bees if Mrs Hudson's urn was in any way tampered with.

  
Sherlock, for his part, had assured John that he had no intentions of doing anything to the urn or its contents because he had already done more than enough experiments on human ash after the whole thing with Pompeii. Apparently he still had some samples stashed away somewhere. John hadn't asked any further questions.

  
"Your teeth are chattering," Sherlock told him, as if he wasn't already aware of that himself.

  
"That's what happens when people are cold," John said, smiling when Sherlock bent over him for a welcome home kiss. All those years and Sherlock still looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen instead of an increasingly decrepit pile of bones, held together by sagging skin and fading muscles.

  
To be honest, John hadn't expected to ever reach eighty, let alone eighty-three. And certainly not without needing considerably more help in getting around. By now, he had come to realise it was just another advantage of having his personal guardian angel: the usual ailments of old age (apart from weakening eyesight and the general outward signs of age) refused to make an appearance. There was no incontinence and no aching hip and he still walked without his cane on most days, except in the cold and following his knee surgery. And of course the old wound in his shoulder liked to act up in damp and cold weather. Otherwise, his doctor had pronounced him to be in remarkably good health.

  
No doctor except John himself ever got a look at Sherlock for long enough to examine him, which was for the best for everyone involved. His ability to appear older than he was, aging along with John so as not to draw undue attention was quite useful, but clearly tickled his vanity, and being forced to move according to his apparent age was a nuisance Sherlock loved to complain about in the safety of their home.

  
It did remind John of something, however.

  
"I have been meaning to ask," he said, watching as Sherlock toed off his shoes, shrugged out of his coat and moved to perch on the back of his armchair just like he had always done.

  
"Yes?" Those iridescent eyes fixed on him with their usual focus.

  
"What happens when I die?"

  
Sherlock sighed. "We've been over this, John, I'm not at liberty to-"

  
"That's not what I mean," he interrupted, holding up a hand to stop Sherlock's inevitable tirade. "I meant, what will happen to you? Do you just ... I don't know, follow me? Disappear without a trace? Will someone walk in to find me days or weeks later with you nowhere to be found?"

  
It had become surprisingly easy to talk about his own demise. He knew it couldn't be that bad. Certainly not half as bad as Sherlock's own death had been and as far as John could tell he had come out of that quite all right. Well, apart from the minor drawback of being dead, which didn't seem to be much of a drawback at all.

  
Speaking of Sherlock ... his husband sat frozen in place, staring down at him with something unidentifiable in his eyes.

  
"Sherlock?"

  
He blinked, shaking his head as if trying to dispel a thought. "Sorry, I was just ..." He sighed. "Sometimes it just hits me that you will die one day and I know I should feel sad, but I know that won't be the end of this. Of us." He lowered his head, not daring to look John in the eyes. "Sometimes I can't wait." The confession was barely audible.

  
John struggled out of his chair, a process that was far slower and more exhausting than it used to be. He shuffled over to where Sherlock sat perched on his own armchair and leaned forward, his hands pressed against the headrest for leverage as he crowded into Sherlock's space.

  
"Me too."

  
Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, clearly surprised by the admission.

  
"Don't look like that," John said, rolling his eyes at him. "Being old isn't much fun, Sherlock, and just because I'm spared some of the indignities that come with old age, it doesn't mean I have to like it. I can honestly say that I won't have any regrets when I finally snuff it. Looking back, every decision I made led to this - to you and what we have built together. I wouldn't want to miss out on any of it, but I won't be sad to be rid of this decrepit body and get something a bit less prone to wear and tear."

  
There was no response and he loosened his grip on one edge of the headrest to place his rough, calloused hand on Sherlock's hip instead. "Well?"

  
"I'll leave this body behind as well," Sherlock explained. "That's how it works. We pretend to age, if we so choose, and when we deem ourselves old enough, we leave the body behind, return to Heaven for a general update on what has been going on there and return back down, as young or old as we'd like to be but bearing the same body we always have. When the time comes and you die, I shall notify Mycroft and he will arrange everything, as is his wont."

  
Mycroft, John had learned, did not bother pretending to age because no one who got to see him twice in a span of time that would allow for any noticeable ageing to happen was unaware of his status. The number of people in that category was very small indeed. Most of his underlings were angels themselves or at least possessed the Sight.

  
"So ... we're going to die together, is that what you're saying?," he asked, because he just had to double check.

  
Sherlock blinked. "Yes of course. Until death doth us part, remember? Except of course it won't."

  
Suddenly, he grinned. "And it means that once we've got our lives back, we can simply return and get married all over again."

  
"Huh," John said, trying hard not to grin as well. "I admit I am quite keen on a second honeymoon."

  
*****

 

Sherlock knew the moment he walked through the front door on a bright and surprisingly warm day in early May.

  
The very atmosphere in the house felt different, as if the entire building was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. It had felt the same way several decades ago when Mrs Hudson had gone to bed one evening to never get up again. Back then, he had made sure to compliment her on her excellent cooking during the day and kissed her goodnight on the cheek. John, who needed no further prompting, had calmly hugged her and wished her a good night as well. The tension had slipped away quietly, peacefully, just like their beloved housekeeper.

  
Sherlock paused in the doorway, breathing in deeply, waiting for the sense of loss he knew wouldn't come.

  
It was time.

  
He had gone out for a walk sometime in the early morning, knowing his instincts would give him at least half a day's advance warning to prepare. Apparently, something had shifted while he was out roaming those familiar streets.

  
Unhurried, he took off his coat, hanging it on its usual hook beside the door before walking further into the flat. "John?"

  
"In the kitchen."

  
That familiar voice had become gruff and a bit wheezy with age but it still remained his favourite sound. He followed it until he found John sitting at the table, reading the newspaper with half a piece of toast held limply in his hand, forgotten as he was engrossed by an article.

  
"Good morning," Sherlock said, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down.

  
"Morning," John replied absently, eyes still on the paper. Once he had finished the article, he raised his head, his gaze meeting Sherlock's. "You were up early this morning."

  
"I felt restless so I went for a walk," he explained.

  
John nodded. It was hardly an unusual occurrence. They had started countless mornings in a similiar manner.

  
Today, however ... Sherlock cleared his throat. "John ... I believe you should call your sister."

  
"What, Harry? Why would I want to do that? It's not Tuesday."

  
That was another habit that had formed sometime during the past twenty or so years. Every Tuesday, John would call Harry. They still didn't get along for more than a handful of visits a year and both could only tolerate one phone call per week, but most of those were civil conversations.

  
Sherlock shrugged. "I am well aware. But you told me in no uncertain terms to let you know. I am telling you now: call your sister."

  
John looked at him, really looked, and read the truth in his face. He lowered his toast. "Am I right that there won't be another Tuesday?"

  
He hesitated. It was one thing to hear John say he wasn't afraid of dying, but quite another to watch him realise his time was up. However, he had made a promise. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  
"I see," John said, sounding as calm as if Sherlock had told him a walk was out of the question because it would start raining any moment. "Might I have the phone, please?"

  
Sherlock handed it to him, pulling his own mobile out of his pocket and rising from his chair at the same time. "I'll go and talk to my brother."

  
It was a feeble excuse to give John some privacy and he knew John would not tell Harry the truth but rather make sure they had one final, friendly conversation. End on good terms.

  
He retreated upstairs into the attic to his bees, pressing the speed dial for his phone.

  
He didn't give Mycroft a chance to say anything. "It's time."

  
As always, his brother did not betray the slightest hint of surprise. "When?"

  
"Anytime in the next twelve to twenty-three hours."

  
"Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements. Have you told him?"

  
"Yes. He's calling Harry now."

  
"Do you believe that is wise?" Mycroft clearly didn't.

  
"It will give them both closure. He's not going to tell her the truth."

  
"Fine. Your plan to accompany him still stands?"

  
"As I have already told you several times. Is your memory starting to lack?"

  
A snort. "Don't be ridiculous."

  
"Then don't ask stupid questions." He smiled, always pleased to get a rise out of his brother. Around him, the bees buzzed to and fro, going about their business. They didn't mind him. He might as well have been a tree for all the threat he posed to them.

  
"I will be aware of your passing then," Mycroft said, his tone all business, like someone talking about a flight from London to New York. "Please do make contact as soon as you are able."

  
"Certainly." He always had, on the few previous occasions when such an action had been necessary. "You are aware of our wishes?"

  
"Indeed. I have the required paperwork here and ready to be implemented."

  
"Very well. I must return to John now."

  
"Good luck." Mycroft's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and a moment later the line was dead. Typical.

  
A glance at his watch told him he had given John more than enough time to talk to Harry, so he let the bees be and descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, knowing it would be the last time he made use of them in a while. Mrs Hudson had left them the house in her will and Sherlock had no plans of giving it up now, so he had made sure Mycroft would keep it in pristine condition for him and John to return to it later on.

  
When he entered the sitting room, John had moved to his armchair and was engrossed in his newspaper once more. If he was shaken at all, it didn't show. His left hand was rock-steady. Perhaps that was evidence enough to betray his true emotional state.

  
Wordlessly, Sherlock moved to stand in front of him, looking down at his husband expectantly.

  
"What?," John asked. "I'm not going to keel over in despair, you know? Hardly any point in that, since apparently I'll keel over soon enough."

  
Sherlock said nothing but remained precisely where he was.

  
John sighed and lowered his newspaper. "Seriously, what?"

  
"What would you like to do?," Sherlock asked.

  
"Do?," John echoed. "Why would I do anything? There's nothing I can do, is there?"

  
"Not about that." He rolled his eyes to drive home how stupid the question was. "What do you want to do today? Last day properly alive and all that. I figured there has to be something you'd want to do."

  
Several minutes passed as John thought about that.

  
Finally, he shrugged. "You know, all I really want to do is be with you."

  
Sherlock was floored. "Really?"

  
It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Yes of course. You are the most important thing in my life, in case you hadn't noticed. Always have been, since the day we met. Really Sherlock, your observational skills are slacking if you haven't had that figured out ages ago. I thought me proposing would have tipped you off all those years ago."

  
There was really nothing he could say. "Very well then." Deciding to honour John's wish, he settled into the armchair opposite him and opened a book.

  
In the end, it was easy. They spent the day just like any other and if Sherlock noticed John getting a wistful look on his face as he watched the sun set outside, he wisely didn't comment on it.

  
They went to bed at ten, which had become their customary bedtime since Sherlock had retired (or rather taken a prolonged sabbatical) from crime-solving.

  
There, arms wrapped around one another, Sherlock's ear pressed to John's chest, he finally found the strength to say what had been on the tip of his tongue all day.

  
"John?"

  
"Mmmh?" Blunt fingers stroked through his curls and he exhaled heavily, relaxing into the caress.

  
"Thank you."

  
John's hand stilled. "Whatever for?"

  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of looking at John. He breathed him in instead. "Everything, really. For being my friend. For accepting me back into your life. For moving back here after you found out. All I ever wanted was to find you and spend a lifetime growing old with you. Thank you for letting me have that. It-" he swallowed "-it's the greatest gift anyone has ever given me and I treasure every moment."

  
"Even that time I yelled at you for half an hour when you set fire to my underwear drawer?" John's voice sounded suspiciously wobbly.

  
Sherlock smiled against his chest. "That one especially."

  
No one had ever yelled at him and then stayed to deal with the aftermath.

  
John exhaled heavily. "You're very welcome, my love."

  
It wasn't an endearment he used often and Sherlock reached out to link their fingers, giving John's hand a squeeze. He shifted, moving up until his head was lying level with John's. Their gazes locked and held.

  
Suddenly, words had become unnecessary.

  
They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, breathing each other in, until John eventually fell asleep.

  
Sherlock stayed awake, listening to their combined breaths, his free hand pressed against John's chest.

  
Finally, John's next breath failed to come and the gentle drumming beneath Sherlock's fingers fell silent.

  
*****

 

"You've got to be kidding me!"

  
The moment the words flew out of his mouth, John cringed. Perhaps it wasn't the best way to react to the news. He was fairly sure he would have had a heart attack if he wasn't already dead.

  
_"Me?"_

  
The archangel in front of him nodded. "Indeed."

  
"Why?"

  
"Why not?"

  
John groaned. This was already shaping up to be a very long conversation. One he didn't particularly want to have. Not now, that was. He felt something thrumming beneath his skin, a steady pulse dragging him in a specific direction. There was no question who would be waiting at the other end.

  
"Can't we have this conversation another time?," he pleaded. "I only just died, I was hoping for at least a couple of days to get my bearings. One doesn't die every day, you know?"

  
"Only once, if you do it right," the archangel said, sounding faintly amused.

  
"Ha," John huffed. "Fine. Get on with it then."

  
The archangel did. "As I was saying, you have been appointed as a local guardian for London, England."

  
"Why does London, of all places, need a guardian?," John demanded. "How about, I don't know, Rome or New York City?"

  
"They already have guardians picked out for them," the archangel explained. "It is a new strategy we have developed in order to better protect the large economical and cultural centres of the world. The guardians for several other cities have already been appointed. Guardians with the required skill set."

  
"But why me?," John repeated. "Why not, I don't know, someone who's been around a bit longer?"

  
"It is not our place to question God," the archangel told him sternly. "I am told you have all the required skills to rise to the challenge."

  
"What about Sherlock?," John demanded, still struggling to wrap his mind around this. He wasn't going to do shit without Sherlock.

  
"Of course your soulmate is very welcome to accompany you and to share your burden," the archangel assured him. "He has proven surprisingly capable in his role as your guardian. He will continue in that role to keep you safe and focused on your own duties."

  
John had an inkling as to what those were. "So, what you are saying is ... I'm going back to London, with Sherlock, to ... clean up the city?"

  
"To keep it safe from outside threats and get rid of any resident ones, yes."

  
He wanted to laugh or maybe have a hysterical breakdown. "Oh, is that all? And Sherlock and I are to do all this on our own?"

  
"Oh no," the archangel solemnly shook his head. "You will have help, of course. A team of angels has been assigned to work with you. In fact, they volunteered." He nodded toward the door. "This is their leader and his deputy."

  
"Oi!," a familiar voice called and John jumped, accidentally catapulting himself several feet upwards with one startled beat of his brand-new pale golden wings.

  
The newcomer gave an impressed whistle; his deputy scowled. "Fancy seeing you here. Where have you left that mad wanker of yours?"

  
Sherlock chose that moment to return from his own briefing, landing next to John and reaching out for his hand. "And hello to you, too, Inspector Lestrade."

  
John looked at Lestrade with his steel blue wings, then at a very disgruntled raven-winged Donovan, and finally at Sherlock.

  
"Well," he said. "I guess I couldn't have found a better team if I had hand-picked them."

  
Sherlock smirked. "You know, John, if I had known they had this particular job in store for us, I would have let you die years ago."

  
"And cheated yourself out of a lifetime with me?," John teased. "Never."

  
The angel's face softened. "No. Never."

  
A moment later, he regained his usual aloofness. "Now come along John! Crime scenes to see, criminals to hunt - London awaits!"

  
Laughing, John took flight and followed, pulled along by Sherlock's excitement just as he had when they had first met. Eternity was shaping up to be quite amazing.

 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it.  
> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, for your comments and kudos and enthusiasm. I'm so glad I got to share this story with you all and there are definitely more to come, so stay tuned!

**Works inspired by this one:**

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  * [[Cover] Rise and Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476470) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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